


The Age of Inertia

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-01
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2019-01-19 16:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: As Voldemort rises to power, Lily finds herself in the unlikely and uncomfortable position of having to write the obituaries of his victims. Later on, though, she comes to understand the truth: She was the person who put herself there.





	1. Eternity of Youth

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Author's notes: 1  


* * *

  
**The Age of Inertia: Prologue**

 

_Eternity of Youth_

 

 

From time to time, I wonder what the world must look like to a dying person. Not because I’m at all amused by the process of dying, but because death is one of a number of ever-imminent events that can’t be fully witnessed by any human capacity. Though I’ve never died and can only speculate as to what it’s like to have the life snuffed or dragged out of you, I imagine that time is no longer sequential to a man or woman lying on his or her deathbed.

Take this example:

The dead person has been slid into a plastic body bag, and the police are sealing the bag shut. The street is closed off with orange and white barricades, and the deputy is wearing an orange and yellow vest, redirecting traffic from his post thirty feet down the block. The road has been recently paved, the tar still pitch black; the stencil outline of the person’s body has been chalked onto the pavement in white, and a pair of gloved workers are standing around the murder site. A blood smear expert is kneeling by the sidewalk, photographing the fine red spray that’s colored up the concrete. The body is loaded into the back of a van and driven off to the city’s forensic pathology lab. 

All of this happens as one linear function of time. But from the viewpoint of the dead man, time spun off its track the second the bullet struck; the two minutes it took him to die were spent remembering his regrets. Even after all these years, he recalls that he never took action when the schoolyard bully called his sister names, so he apologizes to her as he stares into the sky, his chest throbbing as his heart beats out its dying rhythm. He sees his sister’s face and remembers the time she cleaned out the bicycle wound he’d won from speeding down a hillside without having bothered beforehand to put on a set of kneepads. Although he has never been religious, his last thought is of the Rosary. 

Or even this one:

An old woman is lying in a hospital bed, and her family finally decides to turn off her ventilator. She dies quietly and without pain. She was unconscious when she passed, but before her mind shut down, she remembered times from her youth as if they were happening in the setting of a hospital. Foggily, in a dream, she thinks she’s nine years old, fishing in a creek with her brother or father or friend, her lungs hooked into a pump that siphons each breath in and out, in and out. Her daughter has come to the hospital to hold her hand and talk to her as she lies silent in the bed, and the woman is vaguely aware of the pressure of her daughter’s fingers. She tries to squeeze back and feels her own frailness as a memory of her fatigue after delivering that baby girl fifty years before. 

Rendered artistically, I suppose some deaths might look like this:

The sun is setting, and the dying person is hanging suspended in midair over an ocean. The waves are sixty feet high, and thrusting high above the ocean is a one-thousand-foot cliff. Each passing instant is characterized by one of those huge waves moving smoothly over the shore and crashing into the side of the cliff in an explosion of spray. Each drop of water is a prism, one possible lens through which this person might be viewing his or her past. The light refracts as it hits the drops and splits into red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, and violet, each color illuminating one more facet of the truth of the dying person's life. 

Somewhere else on Earth, a child sees that rainbow, reaches up, and tries to touch it. He isn’t sure what he expects a rainbow to feel like, but he discovers it’s just air and a spray of water, perhaps raindrops. He can’t hold it, not really, so he wonders why it is that he can see it. He only knows that it stirs something inside him; but that if he tilts his head a certain way, it disappears.

* * *

My grandparents had an oceanfront cottage on the northern Atlantic coast. Petunia and I often spent weeks of our summers there when we were young, building sandcastles, bodysurfing, or hunting for seashells. We would play with the other children who frequented that stretch of the beach–a pair of stocky, freckled twins named Edwin and Noah, and a small Asian girl named Penny who didn’t speak much English. The two boys liked to roughhouse with me, though Penny preferred to follow Petunia around the vicinity with a pail and shovel to dig for shells. This being the case, I almost invariably found myself being dragged into the water–careening headfirst, rather–and had to thrash my way back to the surface while the twins splashed and wrestled to the chorus of Penny and Petunia squealing each time the water struck their legs.

Once, though, when we were six years old, the boys decided to pass the time by throwing rocks into the surf. Naturally this resulted in a rock-throwing contest, with me as the smallest and most ridiculous of the three contestants. Edwin, the twin with the longer range, tried to show me how to hold the rocks before letting go. 

“Like this, see,”� he said impatiently, putting an oval-shaped piece of granite into my hand. “No, don’t put _all_ your fingers on it. Just two.”�

“But then it falls out unless I hold it really tight.”�

“You have to throw it before it falls out, stupid.”�

I scowled and pitched the rock as hard as I could. It flew roughly five feet and plunked into the water with a small splash. 

“No, not like _that.”�_

“You’re making me mess up.”� 

“Am not.”�

“Yes you are. Bugger.”� I snatched another slab of rock out of the surf and threw this one as well, this time flinging it off to the side. It skipped twice before disappearing under the surface. 

Just then Petunia approached us, incongruously tall and lanky in her nine years, the sand and briny spray making long blond ropes of her hair. “Lily. How did you do that?”�

Faintly awed and bemused by what I had accomplished, I shrugged and said, “I just did.”�

“You still throw like a girl,”� Edwin scoffed.

That evening, after the other children had gone, Petunia and I stood alone on the beach, she watching me with her arms crossed and her pail dangling from her fingers, and I trying to re-create the incident that had occurred in the afternoon. 

“I bet that skip was a freak accident,”� Petunia said in bored tones as I tried in vain to get a piece of round stone to skim the surface of the waves again. “You do have a lot of those.”�

I glared at her and flung another rock into the water. “I do not.”� _Plunk_. There it went.

“Give it up, Lily.”�

“No.”�

“You’re just being dumb.”�

“You’re just being _mean.”�_ This time, I picked up a disc-shaped stone and tried flicking my wrist as I threw it; I gasped when it struck the water, bounced, and flew into the next rolling wave. “Look! I told you.”�

Petunia rolled her eyes. “That one only skipped because it was flat.”� 

“So?”�

“So you can’t skip _every_ rock,”� she said, sticking her nose in the air. 

“I dare you to try it. I bet you can’t.”�

This time she glared at me. “Just watch me.”�

I put my fists on my hips. “Then go ahead.”�

Petunia stared at me for a moment, then hesitantly waded another few feet into the surf. She made a face as the sandy water hit her legs and splashed her thighs, holding her pail high above her head as she bent down to fish a rock out of the mud. She recoiled as the water soaked her hair and stained her swimsuit. Finally she straightened up, scowling and holding a flat piece of stone between the tips of her fingers. 

“Let’s have a contest,”� she said. “You find one too and throw yours first, and then I’ll throw mine.”�

“I’m not going to let you copy me.”�

“I am _not_ going to copy you, you little brat,”� Petunia said, flushing.

“Ehh, you’re the one who’s acting like a brat,”� I scoffed, kicking water in her face. She gasped and wiped it out of her eyes with her wrist, spitting. 

“Lily _Evans!_ Stop that!”�

“What’re you going to do, tell on me?”�

“Yes!”�

I rolled my eyes and folded my arms. “Oh, I’m _so_ scared.”�

Red-cheeked and angry, Petunia hurled her rock as far as she could, at which it struck the surf with an insolent splash. Then she turned, slapped some water in my direction, and flounced back up to our grandparents’ cottage, her pail swinging at her elbow. Her feet left muddy tracks in the sand.   
 

* * *

There were the times during my childhood when Petunia and I would find ourselves being lectured for the thousandth time by our weary, sleep-deprived mother on the ethics of privacy. Petunia didn’t like it when I didn’t show her my math and reading grades, so she would often snoop through my homework and progress reports when I wasn’t around to guard them. To get back at her for this intrusion into my affairs, I would sometimes go into her room when she was out of the house and put frogs in her slippers.

“I’ve told you girls a hundred times,”� our mother said, looking as if she would rather be anywhere but in the kitchen attempting to discipline her two squabbling daughters, “that it’s disrespectful of you to be nosy. Petunia, you wouldn’t like it if Lily always wanted to know your marks. Lily, you wouldn’t like it if Petunia put frogs in your slippers–”�

“I wouldn’t care,”� I said promptly. “I don’t mind frogs. And I only do it because _Petunia’s_ always being stupid.”�

“I’m a lot smarter than you are, bonehead.”�

“Actually, you’re just a lot uglier than I am.”�

_“Mum!_ Did you _hear_ that?”�

Our mother sighed. “Petunia, don’t bother your sister over her grades, and she’ll stop putting frogs in your slippers. Hear that, Lily?”�

“Yes, Mum.”�

Petunia, of course, hated me. She was twelve, gawky, pale, and insecure. Whatever insults she could throw at me, I could throw back tenfold with a smirk. I was small, wiry, freckled, and quick on the draw. I was nine years old and I was in control.

* * *

And then, of course, there was the day I received the letter from Hogwarts. I had no trouble believing it; I hardly questioned the contents of that letter until both my parents had read it. To my proud and audacious sensibilities, nothing could have seemed more normal or expected: You’re a witch, the handwriting in green ink said, and you’ve been enrolled in a school where you’ll learn all number of spells. You’ll learn to hold a wand and levitate lead; you'll learn to transfigure matter and heal wounds without bandages. You’ll learn to defend yourself with magic.

“You’ll learn how to make cards disappear and pull rabbits out of hats, more like,”� Petunia snarled, snatching the letter and crushing it into a ball, whisking it out of reach when I lunged for it. “What a despicable load of tripe. What a load of _crap_. What are you going to do with magic? Bewitch my wardrobe so that it flies out at me every time I open my chest of drawers and–”�

“Give me the letter back, you bloody–”�

She was laughing now, a bitter, high-pitched screech. _“‘Talented young witches and wizards!’”�_ she repeated, cackling. “What a joke! What lunacy! Lily, my _dear_ , you don’t _really_ believe this is true, do you? Oh, how I pity you! Such a _brilliant_ young mind falling for a con-man’s tricks! Hark! Magic really _does_ exist!”�

_“Petunia._ Give me my letter!”� I was chasing her around the room now, stumbling over furniture as she darted out of my reach, holding the letter over her head. 

“Oh, look, the little wench wants it back. She thinks it’s a magical passport to fairyland! She thinks Cinderella’s going to come and take her out of here! Oh-ho, the poor, poor, _wretched_ child, we absolutely _must_ call the asylum–”�

“Give it BACK!”� I tackled her to the floor and tried to pin her arms down so I could pry the letter out of her fist. She was still laughing, her face red, blond hair all over the place, ropy muscles standing out on her bony arms as she attempted to wrestle me off of her. “Petunia! You wretched–miserable _DOG!”�_

“Ah-ah-ah, none of that, Lily! Mummy’ll be angry!”�

“Well, who made _you_ Queen of England? That’s my school you’re messing with, and I’ll give you hell for the rest of your life if you don’t cough it up _right bloody now!”�_

Petunia kept laughing, gasping now, her face growing redder by the moment. She was out of breath; and never one to miss an opportunity when I saw one, I shoved my knee against her chest and snatched the letter out of her hand. Just as she began to thrash and lunge for the parchment again, our father burst into the room, shouting. 

_“Girls!”�_ In a moment he had yanked me off Petunia’s chest and pulled her up off the floor. “Stop that this _instant!_ Lily, what do you mean by _pinning your sister against the floor?_ And Petunia, _what_ the blazes did you think you were _doing?”�_

“I got a letter,”� I explained furiously, breathing hard, “and she thinks she can just _steal_ it, _as if_ that's going to stop me from going. I just got enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I’m a witch, Dad. And if you don’t believe it, read that letter. It’ll tell you everything you want to know.”�

“She’s got that right,”� Petunia cackled. “Burn her at the stake, that’s what I say. Oh, God! Would that this were Salem, 1692! Bring on the Inquisition! Bring on the armored horsemen, the slobbering, bloody-handed priests, and the Catholic Church! Let the–”�

Our father grabbed her by the shoulders and gripped her, hard. “Stop it. _Now_. Do you hear me?”�

She was shaking with laughter, so badly that she didn’t appear able to breathe. She nodded almost imperceptibly and kept laughing. When our father let her go, she collapsed against the wall, gasping. 

“You are fourteen years old, Petunia, and you’re acting like a child. You should know better than to pick fights with your sister over a letter. Apart from being completely immature, this is–”�

“Hah. Immature! I have my _reasons.”�_

“Would you care to share any of them?”�

She lifted her chin and gave a proud, saccharine smile, but she was visibly livid and there were tears forming in her eyes. There was a small tremor in her voice when she spoke. “No, I would not like to share them at _all,_ thank you very much.”� 

“Then you’ll put your reasons away and never act on them again, or I swear you won’t see the light of day for the rest of the time you’re living under this roof. Now _you,”�_ he said, rounding on me, _“you_ are not to attack Petunia under any circumstances, no matter how infuriating you find her. She is your _sister_ , and it is your responsibility to treat her in kind.”�

“I hate her,”� I said bitterly. “And she isn’t my sister. I don’t know what you think she is, but I am _not_ related to her.”�

“You are related to her whether you like it or not, young lady. Now tell your sister you’re sorry.”�

“What!”�

“I’m waiting, Lily.”�

I stared at him, open-mouthed, unable to believe the punishment he was demanding I inflict upon myself. 

“I’ll wait all night if you make me, but you’ll regret it if you do.”�

I waited a moment longer to see if he would stand his ground. When I saw his face harden, I rounded on my sister and thrust out my hand. “Petunia, I apologize for retaliating. I should’ve known better than to fight with you, because you were _obviously_ going to give the letter back on your own. Now make my day and burn in Hell–if Satan doesn’t gnash you to pieces first.”� With that I wrenched my hand out of hers, stuffed the letter in my pocket, and stormed out of the room.   
 

* * *

I was always getting into fights, of course; not by intention, but often because I simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was one incident at Hogwarts where I tripped on my way from the dormitories to the common room; my books went flying, my uniform ripped, and I went crashing down the stairs, only to barrel straight into James Potter and Remus Lupin as they dodged into the stairwell with the apparent intention of avoiding a flying seat cushion. The three of us landed in a heap at the bottom of the staircase, yelling and swearing. We were thirteen years old.

“Oy! What the–watch the hell where you’re _going_ , Evans!”�

Coughing, I shoved James away and scrambled to my knees, groping on the floor for my wand. “Excuse me? Who’s in the bloody girls’ stairwell when they’re forbidden to be there? Eh?”� 

“Excuse me while I knock your block off,”� James said, putting on a high voice. “Hang on, let me snap my brassiere in your face–”�

“POTTER! You little _berk_ –HEY! My _WAND!”�_

“AAAGH! YOU HAVE VIOLENT TENDENCIES, EVANS! Wait, are you grabbing my _zipper?!_ Hey! Hey, Evans is trying to strip me, ha ha–”�

“I think it’s more like she’s trying to kill you, James, I’d quit trying to cop a feel if I were you–”�

“I’m not trying to kill him, I’m just trying to get my wand back, JESUS, Potter, will you _give me_ the stupid thing so I can HEX the crap out of you–”�

“Ha, you would, wouldn’t you–whoa, whoa! Bitch slap, bitch slap, watch the face! OW, your nails SCRATCH! THE GLASSES, Evans, have some respect for the GLASSES!”�

“Hark, I hear the voice of an idiot! HA. Die.”� I snatched my wand, clambered to my feet, and yanked a loose shoelace out from under James’s stomach as he felt blindly under the couch for his glasses. Ten seconds later, I stomped out of the common room to study in the library, so that, perhaps, he’d stumble by a bit later and see that I’d proven my point.   
 

* * *

Then, later on, there were the times when it wouldn’t stop raining.

When I was fourteen, I would sit by the window, watching the drops trickle or, as the case often was, stream down the glass. Floodwater would fill the streets outside our house and shallow whirlpools would form around the drainage grates. I tried my hand at writing poetry but gave up when the words began to look frivolous and vain. That year, I developed a venomous hatred for my own penmanship and vowed never to write poetry again.

When I was fifteen, Alice and I got caught outside the castle in a thunderstorm. I had just broken up with my first significant other–a Ravenclaw boy with few romantic sensibilities–and had thrown off my raincoat, yanked the rubber band out of my hair, and stomped one sneakered foot into the deepest mud puddle I could find. My white blouse was drenched to transparency, my skirt was clinging to my thighs like plastic wrap, and the red and gold tie I had placed around my neck was coming undone. 

“You know, this is probably going to sound crass,”� Alice mused later as we ran up the steps to the Entrance Hall, “but you two were more like a pair of eight-year-olds trying to figure out how to hold hands than an actual, you know, couple anyway...at any rate, please tell me you’ll wear a different set of underthings when you get your first _real_ date.”�

When I was sixteen, I began to study the rain. It seemed that I could never get out of it, so I would go to the library every once in a while and take out a book on weather patterns. I would then spend my spare time flopped on my bed with them, reading about the formation of hurricanes, tornadoes, and anvil clouds. I began to analyze weather dynamics and tried to predict whether we would receive rain, sleet, hail, or snow. When my roommates began to stare and ask questions, I simply told them, “There’s a science to it.”�

After James and I became a couple, we made it a point to sneak out of the castle whenever it was raining. He had a penchant for sucking the water off my lips when we kissed, and so the more torrential the downpour, the better he liked it. 

Once we found ourselves outside in the rain and lightning. We hadn’t realized how close the storm was until a resounding crash shook the wall against which I was leaning. 

“Wow, shit,”� I remarked.

James laughed and began unfastening the buttons of my blouse. “Yeah, I love how we’re just standing here, waiting to be struck by lightning...”�

I felt his lips at the base of my throat and moaned as he worked his way down. His hair was soaked and black as coal between my fingers. “Yes, you do, don’t you?”�

* * *

One thing that’s particularly interesting about memory is that it can be almost absolutely subjective. If you are at all confused over your past, memory bends to your every mood; what seems like a good memory one day can be an embarrassing, cringe-worthy memory the next. For example:

I’m feeling nostalgic and serene, so I think back on a night I spent lawlessly roaming the school with James and Sirius. The three of us were crammed beneath James’s Invisibility Cloak, and I kept walking on James’s heels. We sneaked down to the kitchens, got bombarded with sandwiches and éclairs, and spent the subsequent three hours playing cards in the loft of the South Tower. Incidentally, I was also staggering around under the influence of a raging bout of flu that night; when my charms and potions wore off towards one o’clock that morning, my fever spiked to 103. I passed out facedown in Sirius’s lap and had to be carried to the infirmary. Twenty-four hours later, both James and Sirius were sick as dogs and couldn’t drink a glass of water without retching. 

It’s a good day, so that memory makes me laugh. I remember the hilarity of passing out in Sirius’s lap, yet remaining conscious enough to hear their whoops and whistles. 

On worse days, though, I think about how there is just no getting around the fact that the entire incident was plain nauseating. “That was honestly the first time I’d been sick to my stomach in about six years, much less had a fever,”� James told me afterwards. “I was convinced for a while that you’d actually given us typhoid.”� 

A better example of subjective memory, though, is this:

Alice’s parents had just been murdered, and we were standing before their open caskets. Her mother’s eyes were shut, and her hands were folded quietly on her stomach. She wore a black dress with a white lily pinned to the breast; her hair was wavy and golden. Alice’s father was wearing black as well, and his hands, too, were folded quietly on his stomach. Even in death he remained tall and lean; his jaw hadn’t yet lost its aura of dignity, throwing the scars on his face into a sharp and almost ethereal respite. Though both Alice’s parents looked peaceful, there could be no mistake about it: they were elegantly, artistically, and irretrievably dead. 

It was I who wrote and delivered the eulogy. For some reason she’d never fully explained to me, Alice had wanted me to be the one who did it, so I complied with as much dignity composure as I could summon, and considering that I was seventeen at the time, there’s really no doubt that I succeeded. But in retrospect, I don’t think the eulogy was nearly effective enough. I had written it during a period where I was at a complete loss for words and had compensated by fabricating things, inflating the moral content of the speech, placing Alice’s parents on a pedestal. It was easier to write sentimentally about a pair of dead people than it was to write effectively about a pair of dead people, but at the time, I didn’t really grasp the difference. 

Sometimes I can see myself standing at that podium again, dressed in black, hands trembling slightly as I leaf through the parchment. My eyes are dry, and my voice is controlled and even. I’m giving the classic eulogy: fond memories and profound sentiments with moral undertones. I’ve expressed the thoughts of the funeral congregation, and I’m providing a lead-in for their prayers. 

Other times, though, I look back on that and see myself standing at the podium, feeling sick to my stomach. I’m nervous and inhibited and don’t feel like I deserve to be up there. Alice is looking up at me as if she can’t see me anymore, and she’s leaning back against the pew with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes are red and her corsage is drooping. And although she never says it, I can tell that she’s asking me, silently, why I can’t sound a little more sincere. 

She thanks me after the funeral and tells me she’s sorry for putting me on the spot. 

“No, really, you didn’t screw it up,”� she says, swirling her drink as we sit at the bar after the reception. She’s staring at the ice as it clinks against the sides of her glass. “I just...I don’t know what I was thinking. You told me you didn’t want to do it, and I still...God. It’s my fault, Lily. Don’t beat yourself up.”�

But the catch is that I’m not really sure if she was disappointed at all; perhaps I merely think she was disappointed because I'm projecting my own insecurities onto her. The day was such a whirlwind that all I remember with any real clarity is a myriad of images and emotions–faces, strange voices, shadows, black robes and dresses, smeared red lipstick and women crying in the lavatory while cheap, pearly hand soap dripped from the dispensers. The scenarios I recollect for myself at any given time are entirely dependent on the lens through which I choose to view the event. I can make the memories brave, pensive, sad, perfectly ludicrous, or some bitter and satirical combination of the four. 

It’s rather funny, this art of self-delusion. You would think it’d make you feel empowered, but in fact it makes you feel just the opposite: just a little too susceptible to lies, just a little too vulnerable to emotion, just a little too human for your own liking. 

But then, who am I to be a judge of such things?

* * *

 

Who am I to be a judge of such things, indeed?

Before my grandfather died, he would let me sit with him on his back porch in the evenings, the two of us listening to the ever-present crash and sigh of the waves along the shore. Often he would while away the entire night whittling small wooden figurines with a Swiss Army knife, a lantern perched beside him on the wooden steps. 

“How do you define wisdom?”� I asked during the summer after my sixteenth birthday. “It seems like it should be fairly straightforward, but all I ever seem to hear nowadays is this debate over who’s wise enough to lead mankind to its own inevitable demolition.”�

He chuckled. “Ah, Lily,”� he said, carving the dorsal fin of a driftwood dolphin, “you’ll never be hard-pressed to find someone who thinks that’s rather astute.”� He fell silent for a moment and shaved a few flakes of wood off the dolphin’s back. “I learned a thing or two while I was in the Navy–always keep track of your socks, for one,”� he said with a dry laugh. “But if there was one thing that truly struck me, it was that life was cheap. Yet...cheap as it was, we all clung to it in our own idiosyncratic ways, as if by revolting against what each day in combat served to remind us, we could take back the value of our lives. Typical human behavior, to be sure. Very much a testament to the idea that the appearance of things–not necessarily their full reality, mind–depends merely on the way in which we choose to think about them, and that it’s not hard to lose sight of our convictions when we’re placed under fire. What I mean to tell you, Lily, is that wisdom is the ability to see through an issue with clarity. It’s as simple as that.”�

I groaned. “Does _every_ man above the age of sixty talk in such sweeping generalities?”�

“Ah, now that I couldn’t tell you, but I _can_ assure you that a good many of them will talk your ear off if you give them half a chance.”� There was an amused twinkle in his eye. “From what I understand, most young people find this brand of specificity tiresome.”�

Later, after the sun had set and my grandfather had retired for the night, I walked down to the surf and fished blindly for rocks to skip. From what I remember, I found two or three of a suitable shape. Whether they actually skipped or not, I don’t know; but I like to think they did.

* * *

Wisdom.

How easy it is to throw that word like a wrench into the heavy machinery of your brain and jam every cog and wheel you’ve ever suffered and triumphed to create. How simple it is to muddle, how insolently it invites you to invent new and foolish definitions for it. And, incredibly, we all do: “Wisdom is the ability to understand, not just know”�; “Wisdom is the ability not to be misled by either end of an extreme”�; “Wisdom is the ability to content yourself with the world as it is, not as you want it to be”�; “Wisdom is the ability to know what’s right”�. It’s easy to sound wise when you’re speaking in generalities, and equally easy to say, “Yes, but that’s not what I meant, you’ve got me all wrong”� or “No, no, I meant that in a different context”� as soon as someone else comes along and proves, simply, logically, and empirically, that your definition was nothing but hot air. 

It follows, then, that the only way to ensure you won’t lose the argument is to come up with a definition for wisdom that nobody can disprove. The hidden premise here is that if you can win the argument, you somehow know enough to be considered wise. 

That seems to leave a bit to be desired, doesn’t it?

* * *

It’s raining now as I write this by the indolent light of a lantern in a train station, in a makeshift notebook of loose-leaf paper and tin paperclips. I’m working my shift as the night watchwoman for the Order of the Phoenix, dressed as a shabby university student waiting for her train to arrive. In half an hour, I’ll slip into a lavatory or deserted alleyway and change my disguise–to an old woman passing through the tea shop, perhaps, or a middle-aged businesswoman awaiting the first train to Leeds. Tomorrow, I’ll serve my watch without any disguise at all; I’ll be invisible. I’m waiting for the coffee vendor to take his leave: then I’ll be able to replace him as a temporary employee and keep watch on the station from his kiosk.

Over the course of my shifts here, I’ve seen one murder, one heart attack, four homeless men, many farewells, and many more hellos. I’ve reported each morning to the Order, and throughout the span of each afternoon and evening, I’ve worked undercover as a mail clerk for the Ministry of Magic. Over the course of my membership in the Order, I’ve been hunted–and am _still_ being hunted. I’ve been in small skirmishes and larger, uglier battles; once, I nearly lost my life. I've spent days in underground tunnels; I've broken safes; I've absconded with all manner of evidence; I've dragged children out of ruined houses; I've seen bodies burned, mutilated, and stolen. I have fought to save lives, and I have taken others for the sake of saving my own.

I confess that my writing this is a form of self-exorcism, nothing more than the nineteen-year-old me tipping the prism on its head and trying desperately to understand the kaleidoscope spin of colors as the angle of the light changes. My sense of time hasn’t been contorted by any knowledge that I _am_ dying, but rather by the knowledge that I _may_ die next week, tomorrow, in three hours, or, perhaps, within the next ten minutes. I write this not because I want to share with you my life story, but because I’m nineteen years old and am trying to collapse the pages and years of my memory into a truth that's worth the possible price of my life.

 

 

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

 

**Disclaimer:** I own absolutely no part of the Harry Potter universe, and neither am I attempting to emulate any other author on this site or elsewhere.  

 **Author’s note:** To answer the questions I’m sure some will be asking...yes, I’m revamping this fic. Why? Because I’m no longer willing or able to work with the old version. Head over to my livejournal at <http://www.livejournal.com/~silverspinner> if you'd like to see in full how this version of _Inertia_ is going to differ from the former. That said, I’ll make no guarantees as to this story’s fate; I may finish it, I may not. Either way, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon--I'll be here this year, and the year after that, and probably the year after that. Who knows? Maybe I'll have finished a few fics by time I graduate college (she said with a laugh). I have this version more thoroughly planned out than any of the older ones, so hey, I can dream. ;)

As a small side note, this was written to the tunes of "The Way It Is" (Bruce Hornsby) and "Hard Times" (Eastmountainsouth). The lyrics to these songs aren't especially pertinent to the storyline, but the music did worlds to get the words moving. 

Happy 2006, everyone! 

Cheers,

-Jenna


	2. Highway Driving

_April 24, 1981_   
_Note to self -_

_Have just finished reorganizing the manuscript. It was in a funny state after over two years of writing; I hadn’t thought I’d continue the narrative beyond my Hogwarts years when I started. Ironically, and even under ridiculous time constraints, I wrote straight past graduation and even began writing about the time I’d spent behind the typewriter working on these very same chapters. After a week of editing this amorphous mess, I decided to embed the scenes from my childhood and adolescence in the chapters from my adult life. The story now begins with me writing my first childhood narrative and finishes after James and I learned that we were expecting a baby._  
 _As of today, I don’t believe I’ll be adding anything more. Working, managing the household, and taking care of Harry are full-time occupations, and life finally seems to have settled into a sort of organized chaos that demands a more grounded approach to its daily trials and tribulations. I’d like to remind myself, should I ever be so restless as to take this out of its resting place and begin picking at it again, that it is what it is and that no amount of editing on paper will change the course of the past, present, or future._  
 _A word to the wise–you’re all grown up now. Don’t do anything as stupid as some of the things you’ve confessed to doing here. Protect your family. That’s what counts._  
 __NOTICE - PLEASE READ: Should anything happen to me and someone finds this while searching for my legal files, my will is with James’s in the bottom-right drawer of the large desk in the study. Contact Sirius Black or Albus Dumbledore if the wills aren’t found or appear to have been destroyed.  


**\- Chapter 1: Highway Driving -**

The sudden return of winter had spat a sleet storm on London, and I was wet and chilled to the bone when I arrived in my flat that dreary February morning.

The first thing I did was remove my cloak and toss it over the coat rack; and the second, kick my shoes off and throw them in the closet. Then I collapsed facedown on the living room couch and lay there without stirring. All was silent but for the sound of sleet rapping at the windows; my skull felt as if it had just been stuffed with cotton. Exhaustion had deadened my nerves and left me unable to keep my eyes closed. 

A few moments passed before I rolled onto my back to avoid suffocation.

My flat was your typical city apartment: ten floors up, looking out over a busy street, windows perpetually dirty from the rain, smog, and pigeon droppings. The paint was chipped in a few places, the doors all creaked, the ceiling was cracked, and the furniture was frayed around the edges; expertly beaten up, but not enough to justify replacing it. It was already furnished when I moved in and was decorated in the fashion of a canned Japanese pagoda, with posters of the Buddha mounted on several walls and plastic bonsai trees placed in the corners; yet, amusingly enough, it still had a purple shag carpet in its living room and a set of violently yellow curtains on the balcony windows. It wasn’t home, and least of all in the sense of where the heart is; it was a run-down, almost derelict hole in the wall that hadn’t had any maintenance work in years. But it was quiet, it had a good heating system, and it had running water. And above all, the rent was cheap.

I’d been living there since the previous July, the summer after graduation. Enough time for the novelty of living alone to wear off, but not enough time for me to quite realize that the flat’s emptiness was what made my time there seem so oppressive. In fact, the most pressing household issue on my mind was not getting a housemate, but what to do about the horrendous plumbing. The pipes were so old and clogged with mineral deposits that the toilet had to be plunged at least three times a week, regardless of what I was flushing. I hadn’t had any luck with chemical drain cleaners. I couldn’t use magic to repair it; it was Order protocol not to use magic in our homes, lest we be detected. But I couldn’t tear the pipes out and have it done myself, either; for one thing, repair jobs weren’t part of my contract, and it wasn’t as if I had the money to pay for them in the first place; and for another, I doubted if I’d be living there much longer. All I needed was a better day job and I could move into a higher-rent building. 

That was the plan. Not once did it cross my mind that I had the freedom to move in with James or a friend; I’d always thought it too risky. And since none of them seemed to be asking me to join them, I rationalized, they probably felt the same–which is fine, I decided. I had my books and newspapers, and in any case, I usually only came back to sleep. Living alone, therefore, was tolerable, but just barely–and only because I had so little time to spend in the flat. As it was, I felt James’s absence as a void that deadened the silence around me, threatening me with moments of hopelessness and nihilism; it was hard to imagine life without him, yet there I was, living it as nearly as I could without losing him completely. 

After a time, I rose from the couch and headed to the bathroom for a shower; then, after drying off and donning some nightclothes, I sauntered back into the living room and sat down at the worktable I used as a desk. On it lay stacks and piles of paper and parchment: legal documents, a ledger, my rent contract, last year’s tax returns, memos and letters from friends and other members of the Order of the Phoenix, a pair of scruffy yellow legal pads, a journal in which I recorded grocery lists, plumbing mishaps, strange or bemusing events, and other stuff of this nature. In the middle of all this chaos sat the crowning glory of my existence: a brand-new typewriter, which I had bought on sale for fifty percent of its original price, complete with two large packages of erasable paper; no wands, quills, or reams of parchment necessary.

Beside the typewriter was a bouquet of deep crimson roses placed in a blown glass vase–a birthday salutation from James, which he had sent just the day before alongside a delicate gold-rope necklace. It was the first time he had ever given me jewelry, and a strange gesture as well: he knew I’d never wear jewelry on the job, and that it had been years since I’d worn any at all. Nevertheless, I had taken to wearing his necklace in my flat, where it was neither impractical nor dangerous to do so. It was a rare moment when our schedules coincided for long enough to allow us any significant amount of time together, so despite the fact that the sensation of the gold lying against my skin only sharpened the reality of his absence, I wore the necklace like a talisman to ward off my loneliness. 

This was the emotional state I was in as I flicked open my journal and stared at the empty page before me, though I didn’t want to write about it; I only wanted it to go away. 

_February 20th, 1979_  
 _4:29 AM_  
 _Am really not thrilled with my current situation. Have spent eight hours at the Ministry, then two hours at Headquarters, then six hours freezing on a bench at King’s Cross dressed as an old lady. Can’t see this lasting much longer–I need to move and force a schedule change as soon as humanly possible._  
 _Ceiling by refrigerator has a water stain on it and is still leaking sporadically, but ceiling slants downward at about a forty-five degree angle (for pipes, or so I’m told) and makes placement of bucket or pan difficult. Used a towel to sop up the mess; now the towel is soaked with paint and something that smells like dirty dish water. Appears to be growing mold and is my last towel; I need to do laundry, but that would mean hiking nine blocks in the snow at any time between four in the morning and twelve noon, when I would much rather be sleeping or paying bills. Would it be bad policy to kill my upstairs neighbor for not fixing his goddamn kitchen sink?_  
 _Insulation around windows appears to be in bad condition. Am in all likelihood wasting copious amounts of money on my heating bill. Reminder to self — go to home repair store and buy a can of plaster to plug up the holes. Landlady might compensate the price if you’re nice enough._  
 _A cold front moved in last night around eleven, so the rain froze as per usual. The streets are full of ice now, completely treacherous. Be a stupid idea to try going anywhere until the trucks come through with the plows and salt, etc._  
Am also hungry and somewhat lacking in foodstuffs, but can’t kick myself to go to the grocery store to buy anything for aforementioned reasons (not that they’d be open at this hour in the first place). Guess I’ll have to make do with the leftover macaroni and cheese sitting in the refrigerator...I’m pretty sure it’s only three days old. Wish I could remember–but hell, what does it matter? If anything, I’ll know what happened if I get sick tomorrow...  
 _Need to buy eggs, bread, fruit, new shower curtain, laundry detergent, and toothbrushes._  
 _Roughly eight hours to kill before I’m due in the Ministry, but don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. But the typewriter looks inviting. Staring at it makes me feel technologically sophisticated and somewhat less lonely._  
 _Am clearly not going to get much, if any, sleep today. May as well write._

_…And I haven’t seen James since the twenty-eighth of January._

A sort of tension had risen in my chest by the time I finished, so I put my quill down and sat motionless for a long time, gazing at the typewriter with my chin in my palm. Up until now, the only thing I’d written on it had been business letters and the occasional attempt at a short story or novella; it had been years since I’d tried anything ambitious, and the only piece I’d actually completed within the past six months had been scrawled over a dozen or so loose sheets of paper the night before, while I worked my sentry shift from a bench at King’s Cross Train Station. It had been unusually quiet in the terminal then, even as the clock struck two AM, the hour in which I was born; indeed, it had been unusually quiet for the entire day, which made it all too easy to withdraw from the world and stew in my own misery. Now that I had a manuscript, though, I couldn’t seem to let the idea go–I hadn’t planned on continuing it; I’d only written it because I’d felt it would help me see through some of my own confusion–but suddenly those pages seemed to be pulling at me, compelling me to continue them with the mere fact of their wrinkles and misshapen smears of ink. 

I’d already entertained the possibility of writing something during the hours between my shifts, of course. I’d written to James about it, giving him all sorts of reasons why it might be a good idea: It would help me relax after working all day in a war zone, I might get published and make enough money to give up my job as a mail clerk and move into a better flat, it would give me something to do on days when I couldn’t sleep, etcetera. But as I sat there staring at the typewriter, all of those reasons faded from my mind; all I felt was the deep, demanding allure of those sheets of paper, covered with ugly splotches of ink where my pen had bled and crumpled from being stuffed heedlessly into my coat pocket as I left the train station. So I did the only thing anyone could expect of me: I picked up the typewriter, set it down in front of me, and began to type.

This was how I came to begin writing about my childhood, and then my school years, and finally, my life as a member of the Order of the Phoenix who spent her mornings writing a memoir. Truth to tell, the whole thing was an accident; but I don’t know what else I would have done at the time it began.

* * *

My family left the madness of the city when I was about five years old. My mother had given up her job as a criminal defense attorney because she was “tired of defending more hardened felons than innocent passersby”� and felt it was time to stay home with her daughters; and my father, an engineer who had up until then been hard-pressed to find a well-paying job, had just gotten an offer from a building firm based near the coast. We bought a house in a small neighborhood near the western seaboard, where my grandparents lived, and moved out of London the following July. 

We went through the usual moving routine–excavating everything from our closets to our wardrobes to our garbage bins and tossing the contents either into the dumpster or into boxes, haggling with moving agents, and waving good-bye to friends while secretly wondering whether we really would write to one another in one, two, three years’ time.

I remember it being a hot day during the peak of summer when the moving van came, the kind of day that manages to be so humid that you can’t tell the difference between the invisible mugginess and the sheen of sweat that refuses to evaporate from your skin. Traffic was heavy in front of our flat and pedestrians kept getting in the way of the movers, bumping into them as they schlepped our beds, our mattresses, our dining room table, our chairs, and our television down five flights of stairs and into the street. Mum and Dad were both disheveled and slightly frantic, still sealing boxes with large rolls of strapping tape and sticking colored labels on the sides; as for me, I was mostly just hungry.

I spent a good deal of time sitting on the balcony with Petunia and one of her school friends–a girl named Mary who lived one floor above us, if my memory serves me. Mary was small and round-faced with large brown eyes and a ponytail that stuck up at the top, where it was tied with a rubber band glued to a pair of pink plastic stars. She had a little sister who was about my age, a girl named Vicky with chin-length blond hair and who refused to wear anything even remotely pink. She and I had often played together–drawn on the sidewalk with chalk and played cops and robbers in the alley, that was–yet it had never occurred to either of us that the term for this relationship was ‘friendship’.

Petunia and Mary understood it, though.

“Are you still going to come to our school, Petty?”� Mary asked, sitting on the concrete balcony with her knees drawn up to her chest and looking demurely out at the scene below.

“No,”� Petunia sighed. She was perched on a footstool with her elbows on her knees, her chin rested on her palm–like a self-proclaimed queen staring resignedly at her rumpled kingdom and unconscionably frumpy subjects. “Mum and Dad say I’m going to go to a different school next year. This one’s going to be too far away.”�

“So you’re really leaving?”�

Petunia sighed again, this time more dramatically; Vicky and I exchanged glances. Vicky rolled her eyes, and I smothered a giggle. “Yeah, I’m leaving,”� Petunia said. “Dad has a new job. That’s why.”�

“Will we ever get to see each other again?”� Mary said emphatically, her eyes wide. “They can’t take best friends away from each other! Nothing can!”�

“Yeah,”� Petunia responded, with equal fervor. “That’s why I brought this.”� She reached into her pocket and pulled out two plastic friendship bracelets, each bearing half of a heart-shaped charm, jagged down their sides to make the heart look broken. With great ceremony she handed one of the bracelets to Mary, who promptly burst into tears. “As long as we have these, we’ll never stop being friends.”�

A grocery truck roared down the center lane and a couple of cars blasted their horns. Vicky was sucking a lollipop. “That’s mushy,”� she said, taking a loud slurp. “And stupid.”�

“I’m hungry,”� I added.

Vicky raised her eyebrows and popped the lollipop out of her mouth. She grinned, her teeth and lips stained with blue food coloring, and twirled it under my nose. I caught a whiff of saccharine and something else that may or may not have passed for blueberry. “Want some?”�

_“Eugh!”�_ I laughed, swatting at her hand. “It has your spit all over it!”�

“Heehee, want some? Eh, eh?”�

“That’s disgusting,”� Petunia gasped as Vicky and I began wrestling, I trying to keep the lollipop away from my mouth, and she trying to wave it under my nose. “Eurgh, put that away!”�

“Oof–haha, Vicky, you got some on my chin, ew, it’s all sticky–”�

At this she hopped off of me and bounced into Petunia’s lap. “Ooh! Want some of my lollipop, Petty?”�

Petunia shrieked and recoiled. With a screech and a thud, the footstool fell over and sent Petunia somersaulting backwards. Two pale, skinny legs went sailing through the air, and one of her pink and brown sandals flew off her foot. It struck the railing of the balcony, bounced, and spiraled down into the street, where it crashed against one of our metal trash cans and flipped the lid upside down.

“Girls?”� Mum shouted. I jumped up and looked over the railing. She was standing on the sidewalk alongside the truck, craning her neck upwards. “What’s going on up there?”�

“VICKY’S ATTACKING ME!”� Petunia shrieked. “SHE’S ATTACKING ME WITH HER LOLLIPOP AND SHE’S TRYING TO GIVE ME  
HER GERMS! AAAGHH, MA- _R-Y-Y-Y!_ GET YOUR SISTER OFF ME!”�

“GIRLS! I TOLD YOU TO _BEHAVE!”�_

“Vicky, stop that,”� Mary whimpered, clutching the railing. “That’s icky, don’t do that, you’re making Petty mad!”�

Not that this had any effect–Vicky and Petunia continued to grapple, Vicky with her ever-sticky lollipop giggling and smearing Petunia’s face with blue sugar and saliva, and Petunia screeching like a banshee as she tried and failed to ward off her attacker. The two of them were causing a fantastic racket, squealing and yelping with limbs and shoes banging against concrete. I confess that I spent those two minutes jumping around by the railing and hooting in the manner of an alarmed monkey, knocking over the flowerpots Mum hadn’t come for yet and sending dirt and potted plants flying through the air at positively thrilling speeds. Mary, for her part, had to keep ducking and cringing to avoid being kicked in the face by one of Petunia’s flailing feet. At length Mum rushed in and pulled Vicky off of Petunia, told her sternly that it was not right to pick fights with other people’s sisters, and threatened, half-jokingly, to have us all shipped off to the city zoo if we couldn’t stop acting like animals.

“I’m not an animal,”� Petunia sniffed after Mum had left. “I hate you all. _Really.”�_

\- - - -

Mary went home shortly after the lollipop scene claiming her stomach hurt, and Petunia whiled away the rest of the afternoon sulking on the balcony with her knees drawn up to her chest, her cheeks dirty and tearstained. Vicky and I spent the remainder of our time playing with pebbles and talking quietly on the other end of the balcony as we watched the movers load the truck. Rush hour traffic began to clog the street as the clock struck four-thirty, then five o’clock in the evening. The cloud layer stirred itself up a bit and drifted in front of the sun, dulling its orange rays to a muted reddish glow.

“We should make a house for the mice,”� she suggested, making a small pile of pebbles and twigs. Her face bore an expression of seriousness. “My mum always puts out mouse traps for them. But I think they’re cute.”�

I considered this for a moment. “How would we get them to live in the house, though?”�

“Put up a sign that says, ‘Mice, you can live here’. In a different language so they could understand it. Squeaks and stuff.”�

“Oh, what are you on about now?”� Petunia burst out. “Trying to get the rodents to like our flat? Mum’ll hit the ceiling.”�

“But we’re not going to live here anymore, Petunia, just leave us alone–”�

“Mum still doesn’t want any mice,”� she interrupted, slumping back against the brick wall and folding her arms across her chest. “Stop making trouble for our parents.”�

“We’re not.”� Even at the age of five, I couldn’t fathom why any family of mice would want to move into an overturned flowerpot with a bunch of pebbles piled up in front of it–I suppose it was the influence of the books my mother had been reading to me, or perhaps the fact that no animal I’d met had ever done what I’d tried to get it to do. In any case, I still enjoyed pretending, so I turned away from Petunia and began moving the pebbles into a more pleasing arrangement.

This was the way our parents found us when the truck was ready to leave: Vicky and me crouched on the balcony playing with a cracked flowerpot, and Petunia sulking by the wall. Vicky was told she had to go home, and Petunia and I were hoisted to our feet by our tired, aggravated father. “Alright, kids,”� he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’re ready to get in the car and leave now. Your mother’s packed some juice and sandwiches for the trip; they’re in the cooler in the backseat. Come on, we’ve got at least four hours of driving ahead of us.”�

“I’ll walk you home, Vicky,”� Mum offered. “It’s nearly six o’clock; you must be starved.”�

She shook her head vigorously.

Mum smiled and held out her hand. “Come on, poppet. Don’t be shy.”�

Vicky stood rooted to the spot, as if she couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Then, suddenly, she burst into tears and threw her arms around my neck, nearly strangling me.

“I’ll never forget you, Lily,”� she sobbed. “I’ll write to you every day for the rest of my life!”�

“I’ll write to you too,”� I replied. And with that I started bawling.”¨

\- - - -

We drove northwest that night for nearly six and a half hours, Petunia and I dozing lightly in the backseat with the juice cooler while our mother squinted in the dark at a map. The first three hours were spent on the highway, with the sun sliding low over the road and eventually leaving an endless blackness to swallow us up. Street lights raced past us at regular intervals, flashing bright as we overtook them, and the highway hummed and whined persistently beneath us as we crossed bridges and overpasses, the sound muffling our parents’ voices–that incessant, white-noise ringing of suspended concrete against tires and open air.

“You know, I can’t really see this map...we should probably stop somewhere and have a look at it by a real light...was that exit forty-seven or forty-eight?”�

“I don’t know, darling; I’m focused on keeping this bozo from crashing into us, in fact he’s being a bloody prick–”�

“John, calm down; you’re starting to drive erratically. We’ve got precious cargo in the backseat.”�

“Yes, I’m aware; it’s just that–Jesus _Christ,_ what are you doing, you idiot?!”� Dad spun the wheel and our tires screeched just as another car raced past us, coming within two feet of our side view mirrors and jerking Petunia and me out of our trances. There was a moment of chaos as we swerved back into the lane, eliciting a horrified gasp and a string of curse words from Mum; half a second later, a motorist roared past us, shouting and making obscene gestures with his free hand. Mum returned the gestures fervently.

“What a bunch of fucking idiots, swerving and tailgating like that! As if they’re trying to get us all killed! And with the kids in the backseat to boot!”�

“Bastards should be arrested,”� Dad muttered.

Mum slumped back in her seat. “Do tell.”�

Petunia and I exchanged glances. Her eyes were wide.

“Do you figure we’ll make it?”� she asked quietly, so that our parents couldn’t hear her.

I drew my legs up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my knees, resting my head against the windowsill to stare out at the highway. “Maybe, maybe not.”�

Dad glanced up at the rearview mirror. “How are you girls doing back there?”�  
Both of us were silent for a moment; then Petunia burst into tears and wailed, “Dad, I feel like I’m going to throw up.”�

I was terrified of vomit, so I immediately followed suit and began crying as well. Mum sighed and reached into her knapsack for a plastic bag, which she handed back to Petunia; but rather than open it, Petunia merely crumpled it and clutched it in her fist, sobbing.

“Petunia, sweetheart, if you’re feeling sick–”�

“I think she’s just tired, Laurel,”� Dad murmured.

“Well, it’s certainly been a long day for all of us...Lily, love, calm down; just close your eyes and try to go to sleep, your sister will be fine...”� Then she turned to Dad and said quietly, “Do you think your parents will still be up when we get there? At this rate we won’t be arriving until past midnight.”�

“They should be; they both said they wanted to wait for us. They haven’t seen the girls in years. Lily was hardly two last time we made it out to their place.”�

“Goodness...has it really been that long?”�

“Time flies, eh?”�

“It really does...are you alright, Petunia?”�

Hiccoughing, Petunia shook her head and curled up in the seat, leaning her forehead against the window. Mum watched her for a few moments, her brow furrowed. She frowned. “Petunia?”�

She didn’t answer. Mum and Dad exchanged glances.

“Do you think we should pull over?”� Mum said hesitantly.

Dad sighed and bore down on the steering wheel. “I think we’ll be fine. Look; there’s our exit, coming up on the right. We’ll be there in no time.”�

\- - - -

We got lost on the back roads, of course. Mum couldn’t see the map without a light on inside the car, and Dad couldn’t see where he was going with such a light; besides, he said, we were in the countryside now, and everyone knew country roads made zero sense even when they were properly labeled, which wasn’t often. The best thing to do was to backtrack and follow our migratory instincts (“evolution’s gift to man,”� he called them). If birds could do it, he reasoned, then of course humans had the knack as well; surely a country road passed by more visible landmarks than a flock of birds flying a thousand feet up in the effing troposphere. At any rate, the worst that could happen was a cloudy sky if we had to get out of the car and find our position by parallax, ha ha ha.

“Alas,”� Mum said as we lurched around the bend of what appeared to be a gravel hiking trail, “I think those genes have lain dormant for so many generations now that nature has quietly decided to phase them out in favor of roadmaps. Look, there’s a sign right up there: ‘Petrol station: six miles’. If nothing else, we could at least ask for directions.”�

“Well, if we get out of this within the next few hours, we should have enough directions as well as petrol to make it to the coast. We’re getting near now, trust me. I’m following my nose; I can–”� he took a deep whiff for effect– “smell the sea from here.”�

“John,”� Mum bit out, “your nose has led us off the bloody map. It is time. To pull. _Over.”�_

“Excuse me, where did that come from? You’ve just spent the past two hours remarking on how you can’t even see the map.”�

“Yes. Because you keep refusing to stop somewhere and let me have a look at it!”�

“Kindly leave it alone, dear. I’m trying to retrace our steps, and the absence of streetlamps isn’t making the process any easier.”�

“Don’t fight,”� Petunia murmured. “Please don’t fight.”�

“Stay out of this, Petunia darling,”� Dad said curtly. “Take a nap. We’ll get there in short order.”�

Mum sighed and massaged her forehead, resting her elbow on the windowsill.

\- - - -

It was past midnight when we pulled into the drive of our grandparents’ oceanfront cottage. I had fallen into a fitful sleep shortly beforehand, and I woke to the sound of our tires grinding to a halt against loosely packed gravel. The front porch was lit, throwing small pools and arcs of warm yellow light over the door and steps. Lifting my head from the windowsill, I saw Grandfather’s gaunt, straight-backed form walking out in short sleeves and sandals to greet us, limping slightly.

Dad parked the car, turned off the ignition, and unlocked the doors. “Well, ladies, we’ve arrived at last. Say hello to Grandma and Grandpa!”�

“Mm,”� Mum said, stretching. “I hope we haven’t kept them up too long.”�

“Nah, my dad’s almost always up late; he doesn’t mind. Let’s start unloading the boot, eh?”�

“What about your mum?”�

“She’s a lot like my dad–likes to stay up reading at night. She’ll be glad to see you.”�

“Well, as long as we’re not descending on them...”� She unbuckled her seatbelt and looked over her shoulder. “Girls, are you awake? Come on, sweethearts, we’re here.”�

Petunia stirred in the seat; apparently she had begun to doze off. “We are?”�

“Yes, ma’am,”� Dad replied, opening his door and swinging his legs out of the car. “Ah, how the foot loves gravel after six hours of pumping a pedal. Hoo, baby!”�

“Hello, John, how’ve you been?”� Grandfather said jovially, grasping Dad’s hand and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug as the rest of us tumbled out of the car. “Good God, man, it’s been years! Ah, and here are Petunia and Lily–”� He kissed each of us on the cheek and ruffled our hair, laughing. “Lord, you two have grown. The last time I saw Lily she was hardly walking! And Petunia, my goodness! You’re at least a head taller now; what happened to you?”�

Petunia, still clutching her plastic bag, cracked a tiny smile. Grandfather gave her and me a gentle push forward. “Now go on, you two, say hello to your grandmother while I help your parents unload the luggage. Grandmother’s making hot chocolate for you.”�

By now Mum had salvaged the roadmaps and snacks from the backseat and placed them back in her knapsack. “Hello, Laurel,”� Grandfather said as she joined us, pecking her on the cheek. “How are you?”�

Mum burst out laughing, her voice suddenly lighter, more relaxed. “Oh, it’s been a long day, but we survived. It’s good to see you, Patrick. How have you and Helen been?”�

“Very well,”� he said as he and Dad began hefting our overnight bags out of the car. “Things are quiet year-round out here; it does Helen a lot of good to be away from the city.”�

“She does seem happier now that she’s out of London, I’ll attest to that.”�

“Oh, there’s no comparison,”� Dad said as we walked up the front steps. With his free hand he pulled the door open and poked his head into the house. “Hi, Mum, how are you?”�

“Oh, wonderful, John, it’s so good to see you–”� She kissed him once on each cheek and then bent down to greet Petunia and me. “Ah, Lily and Petunia, my two little pixies! Look how you’ve grown! Goodness gracious, you’ve gotten big. You’ve been feeding them well, Laurel.”�

“Well, I certainly to try,”� Mum said as Grandmother bustled into the kitchen and came back with two steaming mugs. Pressing them into our hands, she said, 

“Here, have some hot chocolate. It’ll warm you up; it’s chilly out there tonight.”�

Mum gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Helen; it’ll keep them up all night. These two are a handful when they’re all sugared up.”�

“Nonsense! It’ll put them right to sleep. And besides, they’re still so tiny, the two of them; they can use it,”� Grandmother said, gazing fondly at us. “I’m going to call them both Thumbelina.”�

\- - - -

Incidentally, Grandmother was right. Petunia and I fell asleep within minutes of going to bed, though I heard Petunia wake several times during the night–the first time when she rolled off the edge of her cot and landed with an impressive thud on the thin rug covering the wooden floor of the loft where we were sleeping, and the second when she jerked awake with a startled yell and spent the next minute or so sitting up in bed, hyperventilating and staring at me from across the loft. Towards dawn she fell into a deeper sleep, her body curled tightly beneath her woolen blanket with her back turned to me, her hair spread like a dim shadow across her pillow in the gray pre-dawn light.

It was about half past five o’clock when I awoke in earnest; my only indication of the time was the diffuse, colorless glow that seeped past the curtains near the foot of my cot and the sounds of my parents’ and grandparents’ voices in the kitchen below. Plates and coffee cups clinked softly in between snatches of conversation as Dad told the other adults which roads we would take on our way to the new house, and as Mum warned–two or three times–that that we should get a move on sooner rather than later, as the moving van was likely to arrive early from the warehouse where it had been parked all night. I could hear the rustle of a map being spread over the table as Mum and Dad double-checked our course while Grandmother and Grandfather moved quietly about the kitchen, making coffee and toast and talking about the driving conditions; it looked, apparently, like it was going to be a drizzly, foggy morning.

Curious, I pushed my covers back; and, with the cot creaking beneath me, I pulled the heavy brocaded curtain away from the window. Dim, cold light flooded the loft and illuminated my grandparents’ trunks of clothing and linens, Grandmother’s extensive array of quilts, and Petunia’s sleeping form; and there, some fifty feet below, a hundred yards away, was the choppy, steel-gray expanse of the ocean, churning and frothing at the lip of the shore. A brisk, salty-smelling wind swept my hair away from my face and left my skin feeling cool and damp. A mother seagull was leading her brood into the surf.

“Lily, I’m trying to sleep,”� Petunia moaned. “Close the bloody window, you idiot.”�

Immediately I rolled my eyes and yanked the curtain back into place, then flopped dejectedly onto my pillow.  
Something was poking my cheek. Lifting my torso onto my elbows, I began examining the pillow–the something was sharp, pointed. I picked it out of the fabric. It was a downy feather; the root was what had been poking me.

“And don’t pick at Grandmother’s pillows,”� Petunia sniped. “Down pillows are really rare. You can’t even buy one for a million pounds.”�

I stuck the root of the feather back into the weave of the pillowcase and began pressing at the tip, but the stem broke. “Go away.”�

“Well, you stop being bad, and maybe I’ll think about it.”�

“You said you were asleep, stupidhead, how do you know I was being bad?”�

“I was asleep until you woke me up, and besides, I never said I was asleep in the first place.”�

I buried my face in my quilt and made a noise of disgust. “I’m going to tell Mum you were spying on me. Then you’ll be sorry.”�

Petunia opened her mouth to retort, but that was when we heard Mum climbing the staircase; a few moments later, she was pulling back our covers and shaking us gently by the shoulders. “Rise and shine, sleepyheads, we’re moving into our new house today. Come along and have some breakfast before we say goodbye to Grandmother and Grandfather.”�

Petunia rolled her eyes at me and swung her legs over the side of the cot to follow Mum down the stairs. Angrily I followed suit and kicked a small throw pillow in Petunia’s direction, which she dodged with a dainty step to the side, crinkling her nose and sticking her tongue out at me.

Breakfast was a quick affair–Dad told Petunia and me to eat some buttered toast and bacon, drink some orange juice, get dressed, and help Mum pack our toothbrushes and nightclothes. Petunia jumped up from her seat as soon as she had finished and followed Mum back into the loft as Dad had instructed, but I hung back for a moment, wary of being behind Petunia on anything, most of all a staircase as steep as this one. Grandmother smiled and blew me a kiss from across the table. “Go on, pixie. Help your mother.”�

I looked up at Dad, who nodded; reluctantly I slid off my chair and pushed it back towards the table. Grandfather chuckled and reached into his pocket. “Well, before you leave, little lady,”� he said, grasping my hand and opening it with tawny, calloused fingers, “I think I should give you a good luck charm.”� And with that he placed a small, carved wooden dolphin in my palm, its eyes, beak, and flukes meticulously whittled. Grandfather winked. “He’ll keep you company. They’re always smiling, dolphins.”�

Amazed, I turned the figurine over and examined its belly–a smooth, reddish brown curve, cleanly faceted by the whittling knife. Grandmother blew her breath out in a light hiss. “Oh, yes, your grandfather just loves playing with his knives,”� she tutted. “I expect he’ll chop off a finger one of these days, he does it so often. He’ll carve anything he can get his hands on, honest to goodness. Sometimes I worry that he’ll carve up our furniture if he can’t find anything else.”�

“He could probably sell some of his figurines, Mum,”� Dad remarked, peering at the dolphin in my hand. “He’d get a nice price for them, that’s for certain.”�

Grandfather made a clucking noise. “No, no, I wouldn’t sell these.”� He reached into his pocket again and pulled out another small figurine, this one a blue whale. “This one here is for Petunia–ahh, and here she is right now! Petunia, come here, I’ve got something for you.”�

Curious, she left Mum’s side and approached us. Grandfather took her hand as well and opened it, pressing the whale into her palm. “To keep you company during the drive to your new house,”� he said with a wink. “Someone to say hello to when you wake up in the morning.”�

Looking faintly dumbstruck, Petunia rolled the figurine about in her hand, running her thumb lightly over its back and fluke.  
Then her eyes moved to the dolphin I was holding, and she stared for a moment before looking away. “Thank you, Grandfather,”� she said, hugging him briefly around the waist. “They’re very pretty. I’m going to put mine on my night table.”� Then she turned and shuffled towards the door, where Mum was waiting for us with our pajamas draped loosely over her arm, her knapsack on her shoulder. Blushing, I hugged Grandfather as well and kissed him lightly on the cheek before scampering after Mum and Petunia.

\- - - -

It was shortly after six by the time that all the farewells had been said and we were ready to leave; car doors slammed; overnight bags were thrown into the boot; seatbelts were buckled. The tires crackled dully against the gravel as Dad backed us out of the drive and onto the open road, and in a few minutes we were driving through a thin, sporadic fog, the only car to be seen for miles. From time to time I would tear my eyes away from the window and notice Petunia staring at my dolphin.

It was a short drive, only half an hour or so. Mum and Dad spent it speaking in low tones, Mum checking the inventory lists and making suggestions as to where our miscellaneous boxes should go. At one point Petunia asked why she and I simply hadn’t stayed with our grandparents–surely our parents didn’t want two little kids running around while our furniture was being moved into the house?

“Well, we were going to do that,”� Mum explained after a moment, “but your grandfather is having an x-ray of his leg today, and your grandmother has to go with him because the doctors don’t want him driving alone. We couldn’t leave you and Lily alone while they were in the hospital.”�

“Oh,”� Petunia said, glancing down at her feet. “Why not?”�

“Because you’re not old enough to be left alone. Something bad could happen and you wouldn’t know what to do.”�

“Why does Grandfather need to have an x-ray of his leg?”� I asked.  
Mum and Dad exchanged glances.

“He was shot in the leg during World War II,”� Dad replied after a brief pause. “It wasn’t a major wound, but it was enough that he’s been having some trouble with it since he came home from the war. That’s why he has that limp–he’s being x-rayed today because the doctors want to be sure the bone is holding up. He goes back to have it checked once every year.”�

“He was in a _war?”�_

“Yes, a very big one. He was a corpsman in the British Navy; he rescued wounded soldiers on the beach and took them back to the ships to treat their injuries. Very often he would have to do that while the enemy was shooting at him.”�

Both fascinated and disturbed by this new information, I opened my mouth to ask how he had survived, but a sniffle from Petunia’s direction stopped me. Mum and I both turned to look at her; she’d started crying again, her cheeks already tearstained and grubby-looking. Mum leaned around the side of her seat and studied her for a moment. “Petunia. Sweetheart, are you alright?”�

Now she burst into hysterics, clutching the whale figurine in her fist; I almost began shouting at her for trying to strangle it. 

“I wanted to trade with Lily because I thought the whale was so ugly and I didn’t like it,”� she bawled, “but I–I–”� _hiccough–_ “the dolphin is so much prettier but I’m really sorry and–”� another hiccough– “and–and I wish he didn’t have to get an x-ray of his leg, and...”� She dissolved completely and curled up in the seat, sobbing into her knees. Mum sighed and turned away, rummaging in her knapsack until she found a handful of tissues.

“Here, Petunia,”� she said, holding them out. “Hold onto these, alright?”�

“Yes, cheer up, Petunia,”� Dad added. “There’s our house, right there, down the road! Look at that, eh? Two stories, a garden in front, and less than half an hour away from your grandparents. We can even visit them tonight if you like.”�

Petunia made no response. Dad watched her for a few moments, then sighed as he turned the steering wheel and guided us up the hill.

The neighborhood was richly packed with mature trees and shrubs. Light and shade faded into one another in the overcast dawn, and small beads of moisture gathered on the windows and windshield as the mist thickened. Large, full-bodied maple and oak trees lined the street, and shrubs, lilac bushes, and honeysuckle blossoms formed the property lines between the houses and cottages scattered along the semi-paved roadside–indeed, the entire place seemed to be bursting with green foliage, spread out over acres of overgrown lawns.

Dad parked us in the drive and unlocked the doors; I shoved my door open immediately and hopped out onto the gravel drive. I took a deep breath: the environs smelled of wet leaves and grass seed. The air was cool, fresh, damp. Immediately I could feel my shirt beginning to cling to my skin.

The house had a stone and cedar wood face, and near the front door stood a tall, broad-leafed cherry tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze; there was a cast-iron porch light mounted beneath a dark wooden overhang. All of its curtains were pulled back, revealing its white walls, its wooden staircase beside the entrance to the kitchen, and its perfectly empty interior.

No sooner had we begun unloading the car than the moving van appeared on the end of the street, puffing clouds of grayish smoke as it groaned to a stop behind us. Petunia and I were told to stay out of the way; shortly thereafter Petunia disappeared onto the back stoop, and I perched myself on the front porch, leaning against the wooden pillar that supported the overhang. From there I watched the crew of moving men carry our boxes, beds, tables, and chairs in through the door, holding the dolphin quietly in my fist and thinking morosely of Vicky, Petunia, and a carved-wood peg leg.

* * *

Clumps of ice were sliding half-melted down my window when I finished. A gray morning light had managed to seep its way down through the layer of clouds and fog, so that now the bare plaster wall behind the typewriter was graced with the lumpy, slow-moving silhouettes of sleet leftover from the night. It was about half-past eight in the morning now, the quiet ticking of the clock barely audible over the muffled bustle of traffic in the street below.

My head was beginning to ache, and a weary soreness was taking hold in the corners of my eyes. Gingerly I picked up the disarrayed piles of paper and writing utensils on the desk and rearranged them, stacking them beside the typewriter; then I gathered James’s letters and rearranged those as well, placing them at the foot of the vase that held his roses.

His most recent letter was lying atop of a stack of extra paper, a corner of the page curling gently towards its center. Running my fingers lightly over the parchment, I picked it up and reread it.

_Happy birthday, Lily. I hope the night shift in the train station didn’t completely ruin it for you._

_(And I’d leave it at that, but somehow I don’t think dry or bitter irony quite fits the occasion. So. Let me try this again.)_

_Happy nineteenth to my beautiful, intelligent, amazing girlfriend–I love you, Lily. I wish I could’ve been there to celebrate it with you. And forgive the sap, but I miss you so much that it’s bordering on sickening. Do you know what happened this morning? I woke up, found a leak in the ceiling where my upstairs neighbor let his bathtub overflow, and started thinking about the time you and I got flooded out of the bathroom at your parents’ house. Needless to say, I kept staring at the leak and completely forgot about the puddle it was causing until I looked down and realized my socks were soaked. See? That’s all the evidence you need. I’m totally useless without you._

_Anyway, to reply to what you said in your last letter–I really want to say you’re crazy; I can’t believe you’re actually doing this to yourself. (How many hours of sleep per night are you getting? Three, maybe four if you’re lucky?) Honest to God, I have no idea how you plan on keeping that up, but you know I’d still love to read the manuscript…as long as it doesn’t turn you into a zombie. I can see how writing would be a way for you to clear your mind after all the insanity in the field, but then, you don’t need me to tell you that falling asleep on sentry duty is a death wish, either. Please, Lily, be very, very careful with that. I don’t want to see you dead. And as for making enough money on a book to give up your job as a mail clerk–well, to be honest, I’d cover your living expenses if you’d let me. I mean, blush if you want, but it’s true, so…there’s that, at least._

_I know you’re going through a period of nihilism right now, and I can hear you joking about it already and saying it’s just a phase; but from the tone you used when you talked about it, I wonder if you really believe that. So listen: if I can get through this, you can too. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for; I’ve seen you take on much more than what the average person can handle, and that’s what sets you apart from them…but I can also see how this year has been wearing on you, and I want to remind you that you were never meant to be a nihilist. Never._

_Love,_  
 _James_

_P.S. I have a day off coming up. I don't think it coincides with yours, but I know Sirius's does. I can switch with him and meet you at Headquarters after your night shift then._

I hadn’t sent him a reply yet for lack of time, so I set about doing that now. Time seemed to slow and pass by more gently as I wrote; the knowledge that I was speaking to James transformed the flat into a soothing cocoon, an island of clarity in a sea of confusion. I imagined him sitting with me in a coffee shop on a rainy afternoon, watching me quietly from across the table as I replied to his letter out loud; he would be holding a mug of coffee in his lap, and his hair would be falling over his eyes with its characteristic unruliness until he pushed it back, after which it would only fall back into place. He would grip my hand gently in his as I finished my story and stroke my palm with his thumb, and then he’d give an ironic smile and say something, perhaps in a quieter tone than my own, if what I’d said had warranted it. And then the conversation would continue until it grew dark outside and the rain turned to snow, sliding down the windowpanes in half-melted clumps of ice like the ones on my window this morning–except that he would be walking into the flat with me and leaving his shoes at the door, side by side with mine. 

_Thanks, James. How have you been?_

_First and foremost, I guess I should tell you you’re right; I am going through a period of nihilism right now, but since you can already hear me joking about it, I’ll spare you the wisecracking, how does that sound? Here are the bare bones of it: this past year has reminded me of my own mortality, and now that I think about it, this is why I’m so bent on, well–writing about it. So, yes, I’m doing it for purely psychological reasons; you’ll see why I’ll never be able to publish this once I show it to you. Anyway, yes, I agree with you, I’m crazy for trying to write it now, of all times. But if there’s one thing that makes it relatively harmless in my eyes, it’s the fact that if there’s anything that’s going to kill me, it probably won’t be a typewriter._

_I know I was never meant to be a nihilist–and you were never meant to worry that I’m turning into one. This isn’t your cross to bear; it’s mine. I don’t want you to feel like I’m a wreck that you need to put back together again. So please, next time I see you, don’t fall all over yourself worrying about me…a big part of the problem is that I’m going crazy without you. Just be yourself; that’s all you’ll ever have to do to make me happy. Please do switch with Sirius when you get the chance; it’s been way too long since I last saw you._

_As for the night shift in the train station, well, what can I say? It can’t be any worse than what you’re doing…you’re right, it’s probably one of the worst jobs you can get in terms of tedium and stress, and you’re right, it is wearing on me; I hate it, it disturbs me in a way my other duties never have. But what of it, really? I can’t leave it; none of us can quit what we’re doing, not that we could willingly walk from it anyway. It is what it is. I just wish I could be certain that it’s all going to pay off in the end, that we’ll win. At any rate…God, James, I’m sorry you have to be a Gringotts sentry; from the sound of it, that job is even worse than the train station, and there’s something about the fact that it’s you who has to do it that’s fundamentally unfair. That’s what gets to me. I look at you and I can’t believe what they’re putting you through. Do I need to give myself credit for being strong because I can stand here and take that? Hah. Don’t make me laugh._

_There’s a leak in my ceiling too, but it’s from a sink rather than a bathtub. I’ll have to show it to you sometime; then we can both have a good laugh. We can even arrange to be flooded out of my bathroom if you want–all it takes is for one person to stand on the shower drain, and then, well, it’s all over after that._

_And I can’t finish this without saying it: The necklace is beautiful, James. Thank you._

_I love you._

_\- Lily_

I would mail it when I went to the Ministry that afternoon; I could use one of the owls there.

Setting my letter gently on top of his, I rose and headed into my bedroom. It was small, square-shaped, and painted white; the purple shag carpet was only slightly less worn in here, and there was a fake Buddhist scroll hanging by the window. The closet door was half-open, revealing boxes of spell books, old clothes, and magical equipment I hadn’t bothered to unpack, and the bed, a low-lying double with a lumpy mattress and collapsing box springs, had been hastily made the previous morning, the triangle-quilted cover thrown haphazardly over a pair of down pillows. I turned down the sheets and went to the windowsill to water the small pot of red geraniums craning their stems towards the gray morning light. Then I turned up the thermostat and lay down, listening to the sound of the heater humming to life as a procession of trucks screeched to a halt in the intersection below.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Author's Note: Nearly five months since the last update - really, this must be some sort of record. Hm. Well, in any case, here's hoping you've enjoyed. :)

(1.5.07) Just a mild revision; I felt like James and Lily's letters were sort of undeveloped in the first version. I'm much happier with them now, though, so hopefully everything'll stay in its place now. 

Cheers!


	3. The Mail Clerk

**  
\- Chapter 2: The Mail Clerk -**

It was cold and vaguely musty in my flat when I awoke just before noon. Sleeping had been like being immersed in a void, utterly deaf, blind, and dumb, blank of all memory and awareness; waking up, now, was like floating up to the surface of the vacuum and sliding into a box of weak, sloppy shadows, whose edges were brushed through with a faint wash of white plaster and a couple of cracks where the paint had simply grown tired and given up. Several minutes passed during which I could only stare up at the ceiling and watch it spin in its brand of slow, illusory motion, a dark haze of grogginess lingering like the border of a tunnel just outside my peripheral vision.

I was beginning to drift off again when my alarm clock began ringing from my bedside table. I rolled over and fumbled for the switch, and then the room was dead silent again. Cursing, I flopped back onto my pillow. 

_Damn clock._

_…Mailroom duty in half an hour. Fuck._

I ran my hand through my hair and lay still for another minute. Then, with a sigh, I pushed back my covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I went into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and looked in the mirror. My lips were chapped and there were dark circles under my eyes. Running my hand through my hair again, I reached for my toothbrush and wet it, then ran the bristles over my lips in an attempt to scrape off some of the dead skin. _I  
need to drink more water,_ I thought blearily. _I need to drink more water and use a lip balm, else they’ll crack and smear blood all over James’s mouth when I kiss him, and really, that’s just macabre._

The dead skin wouldn’t come off without drawing blood; my lips were too raw. Resigned, I turned the faucet back on and finished brushing my teeth. 

I arrived in the mailroom twenty-three minutes later. It was in its usual state, with two or three dozen owls perched on the windowsills, in the rafters, and on the furniture, hooting, preening, and nipping at the letters tied to their legs. All the windows were open to allow the owls to come and go, as usual, and today we had a chilly draft to show for it. There were envelopes flying about here and there where the wind had leaked in around our insulation charms and lifted the mail off the desks, and the room smelled faintly of parchment and owl feathers. 

“Not the most efficient system they could’ve come up with, eh?”� said a voice as I picked up a disordered pile of letters and tapped them against the desk. “A couple charms here, a little black magic there, that’d fix things up…”� 

I looked up; it was a whiskered, ginger-haired man in his early twenties, grinning toothily from behind several foot-high stacks of parchment and envelopes. I blinked. I recognized that face from my trips to the Leaky Cauldron with Alice; this was the face that opened the bar drunk and closed it drunk without so much as a shrug. “Mundungus Fletcher. What are you doing here?”�

“Filling in for one of your colleagues,”� Mundungus winked. “He was feeling a bit under the weather, if y’know what I mean.”�

_What were they thinking, letting him into the Ministry’s mailroom?_ “Not everything has to be a sex joke,”� I said, dropping a paperweight onto my disorderly pile of letters. “Anyway, I’m here now, did they say you could leave when another staff member arrived?”�

“Yes, they did, in fact,”� someone replied. I turned and saw Hestia Jones–a round-faced, pink-cheeked brunette who had graduated two years ahead of me, and who had been known at Hogwarts being able to cook and bake as well as the kitchen elves–sealing and addressing envelopes at a desk near the windows. “Your work here is done, Mundungus. Lily and I can handle the rest of this, I think.”�

Mundungus looked up, still grinning. The ratty gray cap he wore was drooping over his left eye, making him look vaguely similar to a screever who’d lost his chalk and then spent the night bickering with the other homeless for a bench to sleep on in the Underground. 

“That means you’re free to go,”� I said flatly. 

Awkwardly, Mundungus pushed his chair back and stood up, his grin widening. He took a bow. “Your wish is my command, Evans,”� he said as he stumped towards the door, swaying slightly, the sash of his coat dragging on the floor; he stumbled a bit at first, but then he caught his balance, straightened his cap, and disappeared into the hall, whistling the tune of London Bridge. When he was out of earshot, I turned to Hestia. 

“Which crackpot decided to let him touch the Ministry’s mail?”� I asked bluntly. “Last I saw him, he was taking his twelfth shot at the pub.”�

“Haven’t the faintest,”� Hestia replied, folding a letter into thirds and sliding it into an envelope. “All I know is that Gideon Prewett has finished his Auror training and isn’t going to be working here anymore. Trouble is, we’ve no one to replace him–apparently someone saw Mundungus slouching about outside the Ministry this morning and decided he was sober enough to at least tie strings for the mail.”�

“Real jack-of-all-trades, that one,”� I said dryly. “I almost had him expelled from Hogwarts for constantly walking around with a bottle of booze.”�

“But he does know the black markets. We could use him to track dark magic trafficking.”�

“If he’s ever sober enough to see straight.”�

Hestia snorted. “Life’s a compromise, eh?”� She leaned over her desk and reached towards the owl perched there, holding out a letter. “Alright, pal, give me your leg…that’s the ticket.”�

I watched her silently for a moment. My eyes hurt. “Do we have coffee?”� I asked. “If not, I think I’ll go and find some…”�

“Oh, yes, I made a pot this morning. It’s over by the door, Lil. Help yourself, but it’s probably cold now; I forgot to refresh the warming charm.”�

“That’s alright, I just need the caffeine. Thanks.”� I tripped over the leg of a chair on my way to the coffee table. “So, um. Where are we now, workload-wise?”�

“We’re somewhat behind,”� Hestia replied, giving me a sidelong look as I fumbled with the coffee pot. I squinted at the lid and tried to unscrew it. 

“You might try flipping the top open,”� she said after a brief pause. 

I blinked. “Ah. That’s right. I’d forgotten about that.”� I picked up one of the spare mugs set out on the table and filled it. “Sorry. I’m fading in and out today, apparently.”�

“You need more sleep, Lily.”�

“I know. But I’m fine. I can function.”�

Hestia continued to look doubtfully at me, but she raised an eyebrow and turned back to her work when I merely shrugged and took a swig of coffee. “Don’t bank on keeping this up, that’s all I’m trying to tell you. Anyway, there actually is something that needs to be done…”� She began shuffling through a pile of papers on her desk. “We need an obituary written, preferably sooner rather than later, and our main writer has just left the country. Not the most pressing job, but one of the higher-ups wants it done. You know.”�

I gulped another mouthful of coffee without lowering my mug. “Oh. And they want me to write it, is that it?”�

“Well. We shift workers in the mailroom want you to write it, since the task fell on us and you’re the most literary one here.”� Hestia gave a reluctant laugh. “We have all the research done on this bloke, anyway. All you’d have to do is go through it and write some drivel to put in the newspaper. They’d take it. He was a bit of a hotshot; everyone just wants a good, nostalgic read. Especially now,”� she added dryly. “Can’t fault people for wanting to remember the dead when there are so many of them crowding the graveyards.”�

I exhaled slowly; I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. “An obituary, hm?”�

A ghost of a smile passed over her lips. “I’m not sure how much you’ll like the deceased, though.”�

“Why, who was he?”�

“A millionaire, prince of the railroad. He died a drunk. Alcohol poisoning.”�

I blinked again as the words registered in my mind. “Wait. I’m supposed to write the obituary of a spoiled rotten drunkard and make him sound like a saint? What kind of optimist thinks I’m going to do that?”�

“Not an optimist, just a cynic with a sense of humor. The thing is, this drunkard has been funneling money to us–the Order of the Phoenix–under the table for years now, not that you’d mention that anywhere in a public newspaper when we’re trying to stay as far underground as possible,”� Hestia said, still holding the pile of research before her and staring at it as if she wanted to read the articles, but couldn’t quite see them. “He started years before you graduated. He was completely useless in a fight, but still–he did keep us funded.”�

“Oh…”� I wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I see…”�

“And the general consensus is that you’d be able to spin a good yarn about this one, what with our actual obituary writer…gone,”� she said, fidgeting slightly. I chewed my lip; her expression told me that ‘gone’ meant something along the lines of ‘hiding for his life in Ireland or Finland’. “Here’s his information–life history, vocation, all that; Dorcas Meadowes took care of it last night. The Daily Prophet doesn’t charge by the line, either, so you shouldn’t have too much of a length restriction.”�

“Oh,”� I said again. “Er. Thanks.”�

Hestia pursed her lips. “Sorry to put you on the spot. But you’re the best writer here.”�

“I wouldn’t have thought it’s that…difficult to write an obituary, if you already have all the research done,”� I said hesitantly. “I mean…”�

“You’d be surprised,”� Hestia said quickly. “Please, Lily, just do it. You can get it done in half an hour if you’re quick about it; it’ll take all week if we hand it off to anyone else, and that’s being generous. Anyway, I’d write it myself, but I’m no good at this sort of thing and you know it.”�

“Does writing it mean I don’t have to address envelopes today?”�

“You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Deal?”�

I blew out a breath and picked up the pile of documents and newspaper clippings on Hestia’s desk. “Fine, I’ll do it. I have one request, though–put in a good word for me if the obituary sucks and anyone gets it in their head to fire me for it.”�

“Fair enough,”� Hestia said, removing the stack of unaddressed envelopes and unsealed letters from my desk and dumping it onto hers. “Not that anyone’s going to fire you if you write a less than stellar obituary. In any case, they’re not going to publish it under your real name; you’ll have a _nom de plume_ and whatnot. You’re a mail clerk, for God’s sake.”�

This time I laughed, and the sound of it was harsh and bitter in my ears. The texture of the newspaper clippings in my hand was vaguely similar to that of papyrus; the newsprint was slightly sticky as it rubbed off on my fingers in smears of fine, inky grit. _And if I want to stay alive,_ I thought, _a mail clerk is probably all I’ll ever be._

“Fine by me,”� I said, spreading the news clippings out before me and opening a fresh roll of parchment. “A _nom de plume_ –I never wrote this at all. I can take that.”�

\- - - -

_Name: Jonathan J. Paxton_

_Date of Birth: January 18, 1952_

_Date of Death: February 19, 1979_

I stared blankly at the page. He had died on my birthday, a dead man with a pretentious name and an empty past. My mailroom shift was nearly over, and almost an hour had passed since my quill had touched the parchment. Scattered about the desktop were newspaper articles, photographs, and a seemingly bottomless pile of documents on Paxton’s stocks (which were bought and sold by a hired broker), numerous records of his alcoholic incidents (some of which had led to arrest or hospitalization), and publications on his few minor acts of philanthropy (for which I supposed he was going to be remembered). His father owned the railroad company, rendering Jonathan J. Paxton himself nothing more than the pretty-boy heir to a small commercial empire. He was the ornament of his father’s enterprise, the pet of every socialite’s tinkling, twittering cocktail conversation; the stories of his alcoholism never reached the newspapers, but his hospital records, obtained God only knew how by Dorcas Meadowes, told a much less rosy tale. Paxton was in that unique spot where he could be both the public pride and the private shame of the world’s Wizarding community, the sort of spot that was so often occupied in literature by society’s most cynical, decadent, or foolish; writing a life story like his meant drilling deep within your soul for the compassion it took to breathe warmth into something that was little else but glitter, vodka, and noise. 

I pinched my eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and glanced around the room. Hestia was shuffling through a stack of flyers, licking her finger as she flicked them apart and set them in small piles for mailing. Owls hooted from their perches on various pieces of furniture. I slumped lower over the crumpled drafts before me and ran my hand through my hair; I could not think of a single coherent sentence, much less a charitable one for Paxton. The Order of the Phoenix would never be able to acknowledge his contributions in public. I felt silly and trapped; I couldn’t write about the only material I had to work with. _My tone in every paragraph I start,_ I thought foggily, _is either satirical and ironic, or just plain insincere. He may have kept us funded, but you know–for some reason, I’m just glad the bastard is dead._

The mailroom door creaked open, and someone walked in. The sound of cautious footfalls coming in my direction. 

“Lily…are you writing that obituary?”� 

It was Remus Lupin, looking more tousled than usual in a frayed coat and scarf. I counted several gray hairs amongst his head of light brown ones, and a fresh scar beneath his ear; I wondered if he’d slept at all over the past few days. “I’m writing the obituary, yes,”� I replied, dropping my gaze back down to my desk. “How’ve you been, Remus?”�

“Oh, the usual, nothing to worry about,”� he said dismissively. “I had a moment to spare, though, so I decided to check in and see how the writing is coming.”� He peered over my shoulder. “Difficult?”�

“I…er. Well.”� I massaged the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. “Having now tried it, I don’t suppose writing an obituary is necessarily…easy.”�

“I wouldn’t presume it is, no,”� Remus agreed, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “I wanted to see some of those documents, actually–you don’t mind, do you?”�

“Help yourself.”� I picked up my coffee mug and took a sip. The stuff was cold now, bitter and stale-smelling. “If you come up with anything nostalgic or schmaltzy to say, by all means, let me in on it.”�

A faint smile crossed Remus’s lips. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”�

“I think you need an idealist to write a touching obituary for every schmuck who dies.”�

Hestia looked up for a moment, blinked, and then went back to her work. Remus made a noise of irony. “Wouldn’t you be just as well off with a liar?”�

“Lies are detectable. Well, some of the time, at least.”� I paused. Then I laughed. “Good God, this is ridiculous. Remus–I’m serious. How are you? You haven’t said a word, you’re just sitting there looking bemused while I bitch and moan about a writing assignment…”�

This time Remus laughed as well. “It’s not that different from what we did when we were still in school–ahh, sorry, that was cruel; at any rate, that’s not how I meant it. I just wanted to gain some idea of what we’ve just lost.”� He flipped through some of the news clippings. “Other than monetarily, that is to say,”� he added wryly.

“That’s what I’m supposed to figure out, so if you have any insight…”�

“Well, he _was_ a philanthropist. I guess that has to count for something.”�

I raked my hand through my hair and stared at the blank parchment before me. “That he was. But I wonder what his motives were, though–to impress people, for instance. Or, in this particular case, maybe just to make up for his, uhm, drunken incompetence on guard duty, if what some of these conversation transcripts suggest is true. I’m wondering if that possibility changes the nature of what he did.”�

For a split second, Remus’s face went impassive, and the scar on his upper lip formed a hard line over his mouth; but then it was over, and he merely shrugged, his expression noncommittal. “I think that’s something everyone has to decide for him or herself.”� He straightened his scarf and made to leave. “All this being said, I’m amazed Dorcas managed to dig up conversation transcripts. I didn’t even know they kept things like that around…but anyway, I need to get back to work. Good luck writing that.”� He gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “I’ll see you ‘round, Lily. Stay safe.”�

I opened my mouth to reply, but the words died on my tongue at the sight of his retreating back. After a moment I noticed Hestia watching me. 

“I’m sorry about this, Lily,”� she said hesitantly. “I hadn’t known it would be so…difficult.”�

I pressed my lips together and glanced at the clock. My shift in the train station was going to begin in twenty minutes. “It’s an obituary,”� I said, marveling silently at just how strange it sounded to say that aloud. I picked up the parchment, folded it, and put it in my shirt pocket; the rest of the documents I placed in the lining of my coat. “But don’t worry, I’ve written things like it before. I’ll take care of it.”�

“You have? Do tell.”�

“It was a eulogy,”� I explained. “When I was seventeen.”�

Hestia tilted her head and looked at me as if she didn’t quite believe me, but didn’t want to call me a liar. “A eulogy,”� she repeated, shaking her head. “When you were seventeen.”�

“Mmhm. Yep.”� 

“That’s a pretty serious task for a seventeen-year-old.”�

“Yeah, I know, right?”� I tightened my scarf around my neck. “You’d think they’d have gotten someone older to do it, but…no, the stars were apparently aligned in my favor. So I did it.”� I put my hands in my pockets and stood there for a moment. Then I realized I was going into a reverie and jolted out of it. “And, well. That was that, I guess.”�

Hestia was still watching me curiously. “Strange,”� she remarked, more to herself than to me. “Strange.”�

“Hah. I’m not denying it. At any rate, I have to leave. See you tomorrow, Hestia. Thanks for handling my envelopes…I’m sorry I wasn’t more productive for your trouble.”�

\- - - -

The aptly named “owl”� shift in the train station, at least on the nights where nothing extraordinary happened, was marked by a sense of emptiness. The terminal at night was a dark, echoing cavern, sectioned off from the sky by a thin lattice of arched metal and glass. Pigeons and sparrows would occasionally find their way inside and roost in the rafters, sometimes staying there for weeks before being removed by a maintenance crew. As for the trains, they came and went much more frequently, but their arrivals always never seemed like anything more than an afterthought during the earliest and most desolate hours of the morning. Even at those times, though, the tracks continued to gleam, twin slivers of silvery light running away between the dull shadows of the platforms and crossties; the lampposts inside the station remained lighted at all hours of the day, and in clear weather the moon or stars illuminated the rails as they stretched beyond the ends of the platforms and into the waiting blackness of the night. 

The hours passed with almost intolerable slowness during the latter half of the eight PM to four AM shift. A large, pale-faced clock overlooked the platforms from roughly a hundred feet above, the second hand clicking softly with a sound that was more felt than heard. The minute hand, however, made a much more jarring noise each time it moved, as if it were wrenching the gears one step closer towards destruction–a low, metallic tock that echoed from deep within the clock’s mechanized heart. Time didn’t move during the dark hours of the morning; it stretched, twisted, contracted, and coiled like a great mechanical snake, crushing us within the chrome and steel ribcage of a prison where we, the guards, found ourselves temporarily transformed into inmates. 

My shift mates were a motley group of fairly recent recruits and more seasoned members of the Order of the Phoenix. There was Dorcas Meadowes, a Healer and an oval-faced blonde of about thirty who usually passed the shift pretending to read a newspaper while sipping from a large mug of coffee; there was Wu Jin Chung, age twenty, who played the role of a Chinese magazine vendor from a kiosk at the junction between the major platforms; there were Gideon and Fabian Prewett, both red-haired, freckled, and in their early twenties, who alternated between pretending to be watch peddlers or students in transit; and then, last but not least, there was Sirius Black, who–with his black trench coat and loose dark hair–always managed to look like an anonymous stranger waiting for the first train out of Britain. Of all of them, and perhaps it was because he felt a certain obligation towards his best friend to protect me, it was Sirius who tended to stay nearest and pass me information most readily.

As for me, I was working the coffee stand this week. This particular shift looked to be relatively routine, with everyone at their posts and whiling away the minutes with whichever props their disguises allowed. I was sitting behind the coffee counter with my feet up and a newspaper spread across my knees, a gray beret tipped over my eyes as I pretended to sleep. There were very few travelers this morning–one or two businessmen and a few low-budget, confused-looking tourists who appeared to be backpacking through London; at least, this was the impression they made with their maps, knapsacks, and sleeping bags. Barring the ticking of the clock, the only sounds in the station were the quiet murmurs of the tourists’ voices as they conferred with one another and the occasional echo of footsteps over the concrete platforms. A glance up at the clock told me it had just passed one o’clock in the morning. These travelers could expect the next train at one-thirty, but they’d have to wait another hour or so if they missed it or needed to take a different one. I hoped for their sake that they’d be able to leave sooner rather than later. 

With a sigh, I shifted my feet and put my hands behind my head, sliding lower in the coffee vendor’s chair. Stacks of paper coffee cups lined the shelf beneath the coffee machines, which gleamed dully in the yellowish light of the kiosk. Chalkboards painted with the week’s specials hung on the back wall, almost garish in their cheeriness. I wished the station were busier, so that lines of people would form in front of the counter to buy coffee and offer me a distraction from the silence; but as it was, I would probably have another three hours to stare into the lining of my beret and obsess over the obituary.

_It’s bad policy to be thinking about other things when you’re supposed to be on guard,_ I thought, blinking at the soreness in my eyes. I adjusted my beret and sat up to look around. One of the businessmen had dozed off on a bench with his briefcase at his feet, and the tourists were still standing near the wall, poring over a map the size of a tablecloth. I sat back again. I felt apprehensive. 

_Oh, how quiet, quiet the world can be…_

“…And it looks like it’s just you and little me, carving the bark of the lovers’ tree,”� came a voice. Startled, I looked up. It was Sirius, standing at the end of the kiosk with his collar turned up and his arms folded on the counter. He had propped his chin on his fist and was looking at me with his characteristic cockiness, as if he knew he was too attractive for his own good and wanted to rub it in my face. “You look bored. Care to sell me some coffee?”�

“Pick a flavor and I’ll have you jacked up in no time,”� I said dryly, and Sirius began to laugh. “But don’t expect any more than that, because I still prefer your friend.”�

“This is why I love messing with you. All I have to do is look at you and you say something outrageous.”�

“Don’t lie to me. You’d be worse than I am if you said everything that runs across your mind.”� 

Sirius’s grin widened, and I noticed that his eyes were as bloodshot as mine from lack of sleep. “Now that’s telepathy. Can I have the double shot espresso? With some cream and French vanilla. I still can’t take that stuff straight.”�

I stifled a yawn and swung my legs off the counter. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you weakling, you can have your cream and French vanilla…and that’s one pound fifty for the vendor’s cash register.”�

“Hm, I don’t know, that’s pretty stiff. What say we ratchet it down a notch?”�

“Haha. Pay it up, you bastard. And make it quick; I haven’t got all day.”� 

“That’s not what James said about you last week–I’m just kidding,”� he added quickly as I cocked an eyebrow at him from behind the coffee machine I was working. “Alright, I’ll act sober if you act sober. Deal?”�

I finished pouring his cup of coffee and began mixing in the vanilla and cream. “Of course.”� Then I lowered my voice. “What did you really come here to tell me, anyway?”�

Sirius gave a small chuckle. “Well, I honestly did need some coffee. But anyway, two things: One, the schedule change went through; James has my day off, and I have his–”�

“Thank you,”� I said earnestly, before he could continue. “I really–”�

“Stop, it’s not that big a deal,”� he interrupted, looking mildly embarrassed. “Nobody else on his shift had a day off that week, so it wasn’t like they’d have to cut corners…well, not any more than usual, anyway. But never mind, you don’t want to hear all that. Two: Gideon and Fabian have just started passing these around. Here’s yours.”� Sirius pushed a silver one-pound piece across the counter with his payment for the coffee and lowered his voice to a whisper. A tiny portion of the rim was red. “Less obvious replacements for the rings we were using before, and Muggle to go with our disguises. They vibrate for about half a second whenever someone’s trying to send a message. One pulse means be on guard, two means take cover, three means get help, and four means get out of here. You have to scratch the surface of the coin the respective number of times to send the signal you want.”� He glanced down at my ungloved hands and my deep, overstuffed pockets and laughed quietly. “And if I were a woman, I’d keep it right between my knockers.”�

“Crude, but I was thinking along the same lines,”� I said, punching the cash register and then handing Sirius his cup. “I’ll keep it close by, don’t worry.”�

Sirius nodded as he turned to leave. “Thanks for the coffee, Lily.”� He said this in a whisper as well, so that he wouldn’t be overheard using my name. 

I sank back into a troubled reverie once he’d gone, watching the train station again from behind my newspaper. I was beginning to get nervous; the regular night watchman had just picked up the telephone, even though a telephone call at this hour was extremely rare. The observation booth in which he held his post was perched on the end of a crosswalk one flight above the platforms, and though it was too far away to allow me to see his face clearly, I did notice him pause after hanging up. Then, to my dismay, he picked up a megaphone and stepped out onto the crosswalk. 

“All present track laborers, please report to the terminal.”�

The sleeping businessman jolted out of his slumber and sat up, glancing blearily about the station; the tourists fell silent and looked up from their map. I saw Sirius turn his head in my direction. I made no response, but fingered the coin in my palm. 

“All present track laborers,”� the watchman repeated, “please report to the terminal.”�

Nothing happened for another thirty seconds or so, but then there came the sounds of footsteps. Squinting, I could make out the shapes of four workmen walking into the terminal, two of them carrying what looked like tool cases. In a moment they were gathered wearily beneath the watchman’s post. The watchman cleared his throat and put the megaphone down, wiping his hands nervously on his trousers. “Do us a favor and check the rails here, lads,”� he said. “Make sure the crossties are secure.”�

One of the workmen gestured towards the tracks. “We replaced ‘em last week, Jim. They’re brand new.”�

The watchman was visibly squirming now. “Apparently there was a problem with them a few miles north of here, so please, just run the check. There’s another team being deployed to examine the rest of the track right this moment, and the three-thirty train’s still on schedule to arrive here on the dot. So kindly get on it.”�

“Well, what the bloody hell happened?”�

“The one-thirty train’s just gone off the bloody rail, that’s what happened!”� The watchman’s voice was high. “It’s a smoldering wreck with Lord only knows how many casualties, so stop this rubbish and _check the crossties,_ will you?”� 

He didn’t need to speak again, because the workmen had scattered the moment he’d mentioned the wreck. I sat up and craned my neck to see; all four of them were climbing down onto the tracks and switching on the lamps at the fronts of their hardhats. I scanned the rest of the station for my colleagues; I wasn’t sure if any of them had heard the conversation. Gideon and Fabian Prewett were still standing on the far platform, looking like a pair of sleepy watch peddlers; Dorcas Meadowes was still perched on her bench some two hundred feet away, a mug of tea or coffee in her lap; Wu Jin Chang was still pretending to sleep behind the counter of his magazine kiosk. Only Sirius gave any indication that he knew what was going on, and nodded almost imperceptibly. Exhaling, I sat back again, adjusted my beret, and gave the coin a quick scratch. 

The others made almost no sign that they’d received the message, but I did see the Prewetts put their hands in their pockets and Wu Jin hitch up his sleeve. A moment later the watchman had picked up his megaphone again and was clearing his throat to speak. 

“May I have your attention, please,”� he said, evidently struggling to keep his voice even. “Due to a recent rail accident, the one-thirty northbound train will not be arriving in King’s Cross Station tonight. All passengers for the one-thirty northbound train, please arrange for an alternative. The two-thirty northbound train has been diverted to Waterloo and will not be stopping here. However, the three-thirty eastbound is scheduled to arrive as usual. You may be able to pick up the northbound route if you take the eastbound to Portsmouth and transfer there. Further information can be obtained at the information desk at the end of Platform One. We…apologize for the inconvenience, and hope that none of your loved ones were riding the one-thirty train at the time of the accident. Thank you, and Godspeed to you all.”�

My stomach clenched. The likelihood of a rail accident like this after such recent maintenance was practically zero. 

_The only plausible explanation there is for this is that the Death Eaters either attacked or sabotaged the train as it was moving towards London, I thought. The conductor of this particular train is trustworthy and experienced…this railroad is state-of-the-art…and we have a reliable maintenance crew. There’s only one reasonable explanation. One._  
My shift mates and I spent the rest of the night poised for a possible ambush, wands at the ready. The shadows on the face of the clock seemed to twist, writhe, and elongate into fangs; and so the next two and a half hours or so passed in my mind like a slow-moving nightmare, the tick of each passing minute echoing through the near-empty terminal more menacingly than the last. The travelers dispersed to the information desks, lingered there for a while, and then went back to loitering on the platforms. Nobody spoke above a murmur. 

Two o’clock came, but there was no attack. 

Two-thirty. I held my breath.

Two forty-seven. Still nothing. I shifted my feet on the countertop and stole another glance around the station. Sirius was leaning against one of the columns on the other side of the terminal with his arms folded and his chin buried in his collar, looking as if he was asleep. Dorcas crossed her legs and took another sip from her mug. 

Three o’clock clicked by and still there was nothing. I squeezed my eyes shut to block out my fatigue. The workmen were still on the tracks, calling to one another from opposite ends of the station with the occasional question or request for help. The sounds of their boots grinding against the gravel between the rails sent chills up my spine. 

And then, miraculously: A whistle, a roar of engines, the sudden illumination of a headlight, and a long hiss. A wall of warm air came rushing into the terminal as the three-thirty train pulled into the station, releasing a thick mist of steam as it came to a halt alongside the platform. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the tourists pick up their knapsacks, fold up their maps, and climb aboard just before the train became entirely obscured by clouds of steam. Then the conductor appeared on the platform to speak with the watchman, who gestured towards the tracks. The conductor rubbed his chin briefly, then nodded and shook the watchman’s hand. A moment later he had climbed back aboard the locomotive and blown the whistle for departure; and in less than a minute, the train was lurching out of the station once again, its metal sides gleaming as it sped away into the night. 

When the steam had cleared, I saw Sirius walking away from the platform, as if he’d just gotten off the train; this time, he wore a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, left open to expose the t-shirt beneath, and he carried a duffel bag and a knapsack, a set of textbooks under his free arm. Gideon and Fabian Prewett stopped him as he walked past them, holding their coats open for him to see their collections of pocket watches. There was a brief exchange in which Fabian tried to sell him one, at which Sirius shook his head and turned away to leave; and with that, he disappeared down the stairs leading onto the street. 

I breathed deeply and glanced around again. Dorcas Meadowes had also changed her disguise; now she was a harried-looking businesswoman in a suit and heels, carrying a briefcase. She, too, disappeared into the stairwell. 

I let my breath go once more and leaned back in my seat, turning to a new page in my newspaper. On impulse I poured myself a cup of coffee, then added some money to the cash register. About a minute after sitting down to drink it, I looked up again and saw Sirius and Dorcas returning to the terminal, both wearing different disguises again. Now Sirius was the anonymous stranger, but this time his trench coat was brown rather than black, and he wore a hat to cover his face; Dorcas was a plainly dressed woman holding a train schedule in one hand and dragging a suitcase behind her with the other. Neither of them acknowledged me as they took a seat on the benches nearest the platforms they were watching, but the coin buzzed once beneath the fabric of my shirt in silent warning.

_Stay alert._

The last half hour of the shift passed uneventfully, though, and I stumbled back into my flat around 4:15 AM, sick with the sensations of a prolonged adrenaline rush. I wasn’t thinking about how little time I had before my next mailroom shift began, or even what I was going to do that would ease my mind; I merely dropped my cloak and spread my writing materials out on my desk, took a slice of bread from the kitchen to settle my stomach, and loaded some fresh paper into my typewriter. 

_February 24th, 1979_

_4:19 AM_

_It seems that writing the death of someone, or at least trying to escape writing the death of someone, is becoming something almost like one of the themes of my life._  
 _Still need to take care of the draft in the window–either that or buy better ink for the typewriter. This might be the first time in history that anyone’s ever had to water down a semi-solid ink cartridge for a typewriter made in 1977._

* * *

The summer passed slowly after the move, and the days blurred together, hot, pollen-dusted and smelling of brine. The debris of change lay scattered about between the temporary arrangements of tables, chairs, bookshelves, and lamps; brown cardboard boxes and crumpled newspaper made up the landscape of our house for much of July and August. Shadows wandered across the undecorated walls in a slow ballet, dappled with spots of pale gold sun in the mornings and shot through with the silhouettes of the trees and boxes by the windows in the evenings. The solitude was palpable, it seemed, there to absorb whatever noise I made and whisper it back to me as I walked between our half-unpacked possessions each morning, my footsteps creaking softly over the wooden floors. 

The house seemed packed with latent possibilities during the hours before my family awoke. We had an attic as well as a basement–more space than I’d imagined could exist within any house. Most alluring, though, was the open road that led out of our neighborhood and ran along the seashore, winding away into the morning mist as it curved towards the north and banking closer to my grandparents’ house as it wound towards the south, snaking into the distance over long stretches of low, sandy beach and jutting, rocky cliffs. It was on this road that I habitually met the playmates who would later hold the ladder for me as I climbed into our attic at seven o’clock in the morning to look for ghosts: Edwin and Noah O’Neill

Our parents made it a point to get my sister and me out of the house when they were unpacking. “We’re taking a load of glass and fragile things out of their boxes now, and we don’t want you girls around to trip on them and cut yourselves,”� Dad said one morning as he shooed us out the front door. “Go out and play, but don’t wander too far.”� I’m sure that I never would have made a habit of meeting Edwin and Noah on that road if our parents hadn’t always insisted on keeping Petunia and me out of the way while the house was being removed from storage; this was how I ended up walking along beside  
Petunia on one particularly humid morning, skipping rocks along the pavement. 

The sun had just risen into a clear sky, breathing a pale gold-orange glow onto the mists scattered between the rocks and cliffs. It was early enough not to be uncomfortably hot, and the road was so empty of cars and pedestrians that an ant probably could have crossed it without risk of being stepped on. As for me, I was enjoying myself; I had made up my mind to explore the area as soon as the moving van had pulled away from our house, and being kicked out at the break of dawn presented the perfect opportunity to do so. Petunia, however, didn’t like the idea of leaving our front porch in the absence of an adult, but she couldn’t do very much but follow me–she was afraid she’d be punished if she let me out of her sight. 

“I don’t think we should go much further,”� she said as we approached a rocky outcropping that swept out over the surf. 

“Mum and Dad won’t like it.”�

“We’re not going that far,”� I replied, focusing my energy on walking on the curb. I wobbled slightly, then put my arms out for balance. “Why doesn’t it help to stick your arms out?”�

“Of course it helps. You’re just not doing it right.”�

“Oh yeah?”�

“Yeah.”�

“I dare you to do it yourself, then,”� I said, putting my hands on my hips. 

“I won’t. It’s dangerous.”�

This, incidentally, was the moment Edwin chose to crash the scene. In retrospect, I suppose I should have heard him coming; there was never anything subtle about his step or the way he carried himself–wherever Edwin O’Neill went, a battery of energy and noise followed. His eyes were alert, slightly cocky, and constantly scanning for some new form of excitement; his shoes were perpetually untied; and his ankles were always smudged with dirt where the soles of his sneakers had scraped across his skin as he walked, jumped, or ran. Watching him move, you’d almost expect him to break everything he touched; and though that rarely ever seemed to be the case, you could always tell where he’d been. There would be a fresh smear of charcoal, a smudged fingerprint, or perhaps a twig or chess piece out of place, for he was the sort of boy you saw traces of wherever you looked, even– _especially,_ I should say–in his absence. 

“Hi,”� he said, ignoring Petunia. “My grandparents were walking on the beach, but they let me go for a while. My name's Edwin.”�

“I'm Lily,”� I replied. “And this is my sister, Petunia.”�

“Hi,”� he said noncommittally. “How old are you?”�

“Eight,”� Petunia responded, looking at him curiously. “How old are you?

“Five.”�

“Yeah, so is my sister.”�

“Oh,”� Edwin said, picking up a pebble from the side of the road and skipping it along the pavement as I had just been doing. It bounced twice before skittering off the shoulder and disappearing into the weedy gravel beside the curb, scattering a few other pebbles as it went. “Ha, I see my grandparents over there. Still walking on the beach. I think they’re nuts.”�

I picked up a pebble of my own and skipped it in Edwin’s direction. “Just because you walk doesn’t mean you’re nuts.”�

“Are you even supposed to be here?”� Petunia asked, glancing towards the shore. Sure enough, two small silhouettes were walking slowly towards an outcropping of rocks. “Are your parents letting you come out here this early in the morning without your grandparents?”�

“They’re not even awake yet.”�

Petunia looked surprised at the abruptness of his response, but she tried to hide it by shrugging. “Alright, fine, it won’t be my fault if you get in trouble.”�

Edwin made a noise of disgust. “Your sister’s nosy, Lily.”�

“I know, she loves to come into my room at five o’clock in the morning and ruin all the stuff on my desk–”�

Petunia’s cheeks reddened. “I do not, Lily. Mum wants me to check on you, that’s all–”�

“I told her what you were doing,”� I said, rolling my eyes, “and she thinks you’re being nosy too.”� 

“She does not!”� Her voice was higher than usual now. “And besides, you’re always up making noise, so _someone_ has to make sure you won’t burn the house down!”�

I raised one leg and held it up behind me, stretching my arms forward to maintain my balance, and rolled my eyes again. 

“You’re dumb, Petunia.”�

“But you’re younger. And dumber.”�

“Yeah, well,”� I said, adjusting my arms, “Mum and Dad decided to have me because you were too dumb for them, so shut up and go away, please.”�

I don’t know which reaction I was expecting; I didn’t think that what I’d said was any worse than what I usually said to Petunia when she got aggressive, so I was surprised when she simply stood there, working her jaw to zero avail. It was a moment before I noticed that her lip was trembling. 

“Forget it,”� she shot back after another few seconds’ delay. “You’re impossible, and I’m not the one who’s responsible for you. And if you get either of us hurt, or even killed,”� she added, jabbing a finger in my face, “Mum and Dad will just have to deal with it!”� With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off down the road, disappearing around the bend that led to our house. 

Edwin looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “She’s crazy.”�

I swallowed. “I think she was just born that way.”� Then I made a face. “She’s always doing things like that.”�

“Yeah, probably,”� Edwin agreed. “Come on, let’s go find my brother. He’s looking for rocks on the beach.”�

\- - - -

We did indeed find Noah O’Neill on the beach, but he wasn’t looking for rocks; rather, he was down on all fours, digging in the wet sand by the tide line. Unlike his brother, he didn’t have any dirt smeared across his cheek or ankles, but his hair was wiry from collecting ocean spray all morning; though he and Edwin were identical twins, Noah’s face was more deeply freckled, and, somehow, his hands were more slender and his skin more delicate, almost as if he had less of a penchant than his brother for getting mud under his fingernails. He wore an intent look on his face now, chewing his lower lip in concentration as he scraped at the sand with the tips of his fingers. Edwin and I came to a stop in front of him and peered down at the pit he’d dug; something smooth and white was protruding from the ground. 

“What’s that?”� Edwin asked, squatting beside his brother. “Looks like a seashell.”�

“I think it’s a conch,”� Noah replied, still focused intently on the task of unearthing the object. “Dad showed me one with spikes like that.”�

“Why don’t you use your foot to push it out of the sand?”�

“No, don’t do that! You’ll break it, jeez.”�

“I always use a shovel when things are that hard to dig up,”� I said, tapping the shell. “I could go back to my house and get one.”�

Noah looked up at me, his eyes meeting mine briefly; then he dropped his gaze again. “It’s okay, I think I can get it out like this.”�

It took us the better part of an hour to dig up the conch, or whatever it was–by time we’d finished, the sun had burned away the last of the morning’s mist and was beating uncomfortably on our backs. Rubbing the sand from his hands, Noah reached into the pit and lifted out a large spiral seashell, which he turned over in his hands for us to examine. 

“Look at that,”� Edwin said, pointing to the opening on the underside of the shell. “I think there’s something living in it…”�

I nearly fell into the hole as I craned my neck to see what they were talking about, and I had to get down on my hands and knees to keep my balance. In any case, my efforts were rewarded when Noah suddenly recoiled and dropped the conch right in front of me, where it landed with a dull thud in the sand. Something wet and brown was squirming slowly at the opening, a flat, slimy-looking thing that smelled vaguely similar to a piece of spoiled fish. After a moment its head emerged, slug-like and whiskered, with a pair of stalk eyes protruding from the top. With a small yelp I jumped back and wiped my hands on my shorts, even though I hadn’t touched it. 

“It’s still alive,”� Edwin said in a low voice, his eyes wide. “It’s moving…”�

“I think it’s dying,”� Noah said in horror. “Look what it’s doing.”� He picked up a small piece of driftwood and poked tentatively at it. The animal twitched at the sensation, writhed slowly about its shell a few more times, and then lay still, its foot drooping limply. 

“Get it some water,”� I suggested. “Maybe it can’t breathe…fish out of water can’t breathe either…”�

“Can we get it out of the shell?”� Edwin asked, still staring at it in awe. 

“I don’t know,”� I said. “I think it’s attached to the inside.”�

Silent, Noah poked the animal’s flesh again. It didn’t move. 

“Dead,”� he said after a time. His voice carried a note of amazement and dismay. “It’s dead.”�

I didn’t know what to say, so I looked up at Edwin; he didn’t seem to know what to say either. His features were frozen into an expression of either confusion or contrition, as if he hadn’t expected to see anything die before him quite like this, least of all a giant sea snail. 

“Are you sure?”� I asked hesitantly. “Maybe it just went to sleep instead.”�

“No, it’s dead,”� Noah replied, still prodding at the snail with his piece of driftwood. “This would wake it up if it were asleep.”� And with that he sat back and drew a knee up to his body, resting his chin against it as he stared down into the pit of sand. A wave washed up on shore and pooled around the snail, spreading a thin layer of foam over its foot before disappearing into the ground. 

“How did you find it, anyway?”� Edwin asked, breaking the silence. 

“I saw the shell sticking out of the sand.”�

I fidgeted uneasily with my shorts. “I don’t think we should bury it again.”�

Noah gave me a look of puzzlement. “Why not?”�

“Because then it’s like we never found it.”�

“Yeah,”� Edwin piped up. “We should keep it. Or mark the spot so we can find it again later.”�

Now Noah looked incredulous. “It’s going to rot,”� he said emphatically. “It’s going to rot and stuff is going to come out of the sand and eat it. Remember the bird we found on the road? Like that. That’s what it’s going to be like.”�

“Let’s just mark the spot, then.”� Ignoring his brother’s protests, Edwin began pushing handfuls of wet sand over the snail until he’d built a small mound, cracked where the sand hadn’t stuck together and imprinted with the shape of his hands where he’d pressed too hard. Then he picked up the piece of driftwood Noah had used to poke the snail’s body and drew a large X over the pile. “See?”� he said, sitting back after a moment. “At least now we know we found it. Conches are rare. You can’t find them anywhere but on a few beaches in the world, anyway.”�

Noah didn’t respond; he only blew out his breath so that it tousled his bangs and gazed towards the surf. The three of us sat there for a long while, not saying anything. Finally he shrugged, rinsed his hands in a wave of seawater, and got to his feet, after which he retraced the X with his toe. Then he stood back and gazed down at what he’d done. “There. That should last a while,”� he remarked, more to himself than to either of us. 

Edwin and I exchanged glances before standing up and turning to follow Noah as he made to leave. I looked back for a moment; the waves were already washing the X away, all traces of the grave we’d made slipping away beneath the tide. I’d been walking in step with both of the twins as I gazed backwards for those few brief instances, but when I turned to gaze ahead once again, Edwin was running ahead of us, though not without gesturing for us to follow.

* * *

I stopped typing and pushed my chair back from my desk. The typewriter continued to sit expectantly before me, the silence pressing in around the spaces between the words drying on the page. An almost overpowering sense of dread lingered in the pit of my stomach, as it was nearly dawn and I still hadn’t finished the obituary. The half-written draft lay derelict on top of a pile of tax returns, ink scrawled haplessly up and down the parchment where I had tried in vain to come up with something that might pass for sincere. 

James’s roses sat wilting in their vase on the other side of the typewriter, the fringes of their petals dry and curling. I picked up the vase and took it to the kitchen sink, where I lifted the roses out and dumped the water down the drain; dazedly I reached for a knife and cut off the rotten ends of the stems. _What a sad memento these make, James,_ I thought as I placed the roses back in the vase and poured in some fresh water. _I love you so much more than you’d guess from looking at these…God forbid I ever have to write your obituary, though I have to say, I would do one hell of an amazing job._  
I paused for a moment in taking the roses back to the desk; then I thought better of it, picked up a quill and some spare parchment, and brought everything into the bedroom. I set the roses gently on the night table, behind my alarm clock. For a long while I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at them while the hands of the clock ticked expressionlessly before me, my writing supplies lying limply in my lap. Finally I reached up and turned the clock around so that I wouldn’t have to see it any longer; then I leaned back against the headboard and spread a fresh roll of parchment across my knees. 

I’d intended on finishing the obituary once and for all, but what I wrote instead was this:

_6:23 AM_

_It’s about that time of the morning again–the printing presses will be rolling in a few minutes. Am expecting the train wreck to hit the papers in about twenty-four hours’ time with a likely alibi. We’ll see if they blame it on a drunken conductor._  
 _On a different note: there’s something about recalling every single damn thing you’ve ever lived that makes it this much easier to choke on the life history of everyone else._

I gazed unseeingly at the words for nearly a minute, quill poised over the page; but suddenly an overwhelming wave of anger swept over me, and I pushed my materials off to the side and curled up under the covers. 

_I don’t want to write the obituary of a rich little bastard who pissed away his life as a drunk. A fucking drunk! And here we are, all of us, scurrying around like rats in a maze trying not to get ourselves killed, trying to stay alive, trying to live–God, God, what kind of filthy, disgusting straw man takes a life handed to him on a silver platter and drinks it away…just drinks it away, lets it fall apart like a sucked-out lemon rind floating in a bucket of cheap whiskey?_  
I realized that I was breathing hard and that the blurriness in front of me was tears. I swore under my breath; I didn’t want to cry, I wanted to sleep. But my body was beyond my control now, and so I lay there helplessly, fists and muscles clenched with the effort of not making too much noise while I wept and cursed into my pillow. 

After a while I managed to calm myself down, inhaling deeply to control my breathing. My eyes stung with tears and exhaustion. _Don’t think of him as a useless drunk. Think of where the Order would have been without his money._  
 _–Up the same damn creek we’re in now, I’m sure. We didn’t need money. We needed bodies. Bodies. People willing to risk their necks for–_  
 _You’re angry that good people have to endure and die so that men like Jonathan J. Paxton can continue to exist. More than that, you’re angry that the man you love has to pay that price as a Gringotts sentry while you languish in the shadow of Paxton’s empire, gnawing a hole in your stomach as you wonder how much longer James will be able to hide, missing him as the one thing that makes your life living…_  
 _Don’t think like that. Just don’t. Don’t even go there._  
I turned over and buried my face in the sheets. They had ceased to smell like James, but when I ran my hand over the mattress to smooth out the wrinkles, I could feel a very slight indentation where he had lain beside me, his lips in my hair and his fingers trailing slowly up and down the small of my back. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Author’s Note: Alas, another stupendously late chapter. Honest to God, I was planning on getting this posted back in July or August, but everything I wrote (all 23,000+ words of it–I’ve long since lost track of the number of scenes I’ve cut from this chapter) just…flopped. If anyone’s wondering what else happened, well, I also went off to college, so you can probably imagine what a toll that took on my writing time. All this being said, I’m still here, and this story will continue to be updated, I promise.

(For anyone interested in music for this chapter, I wrote this while listening primarily to '1979', by the Smashing Pumpkins, and 'Upward over the Mountain', by Iron & Wine.) 

Happy 2007, everyone. Hope this holiday season’s finding you well!


	4. O Writer, My Writer

**Author's Note:** I didn't think I'd actually write another chapter to this story, and I think I even informally said so. But it always seems that as soon as I say I'm not going to do something, I end up doing it. So here it is - with no accompanying rewrites this time. Crazy, isn't it?

 

**\- Chapter 3: O Writer, My Writer -**

 

It was unseasonably warm when my day off arrived. The streets were a soup of slush and melted snow; people brought out their de-icers only to find that the locks on their cars  weren't actually frozen. The air temperature remained solidly above freezing and the Order paused momentarily in its obsession with atmosphere and climate control charms. We threw open the windows in the mail room and breathed much-welcomed fresh air; we swapped our heavy cloaks for lighter ones. Hestia even waltzed around the mail room watering our resident plants, which seemed to be having a growth spurt. It was lovely - except for the fog. 

My head was intensely foggy with sleep deprivation by the time I was allowed to take my leave. The last thing I needed was to be surrounded with fog, because now I got lost in two ways instead of one: First I would lose my train of thought and stand stupidly in the road, wondering what I was doing there and why my skull felt pumped full of molasses; then I would look around and realize that I hadn't the faintest idea where I was or where I was going. This was hardly unusual for me, though, so I didn't worry much about it when it happened. I simply smiled at the grandness of having gone through several weeks of exhaustion and emotional turmoil, for which the reward was incoherent giddiness and a day off to celebrate 1) the fact that I was not dead, and 2) the fact that missing James for so long had borne its fruit, because now I could see him again. 

The problem with seeing James, however, was that I always managed to choke at the sight of him. He was beautiful, with strong shoulders and a lovely tapering waist that put smug thoughts in my head: _He is a piece of art, and only I am allowed to see him naked._ He was also, I kept discovering, eminently better than I was at sleeping during the ungodly hours of the morning, which made him infuriatingly well-adjusted - at least when compared with me. The fact that he seemed so in-control, so calm, and so well-rested made me feel stupid, angry, and altogether incompetent. And this just made him look all the more beautiful. 

Such was the condition of James Potter when we finally got to see one another. He was sitting on my bed with his coat and socks off, black hair falling over his forehead. He was rifling through the sheets of paper I'd taken off the typewriter while I fidgeted restlessly with a loose thread on my pillow case. I got up several times and puttered about my closet while he continued to read, but found nothing to clean or put away; I went into my cramped and dingy little kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. I brushed my teeth and rinsed three times. Finally I lay down on the bed and curled up next to James, resting my head in his lap. 

At last he was done. "'...When I turned to gaze ahead once again, Edwin was running ahead of us, though not without gesturing for us to follow.'" James put the manuscript down and gave me a hard look. " _This_ is what you're doing at six in the morning?"

Immediately my stomach constricted. " _This_ is what we're going to spend our time off together arguing about?" 

A look of pain flickered on James's face. "Well - no." He sighed. "It's just - you need to sleep, Lily. I mean seriously."

"I know, I know. I just can't. I'm an insomniac."

"You need to find a way to make it happen."

"I'm trying!"

"No, you're not. You're drowning yourself in your misery and refusing to sleep so you'll have an excuse to keep drowning yourself. And wax nostalgic about the past again."

"What! No I'm not, what is your problem?"

"I don't have a - listen, Lily, you work at a dangerous job and you keep staying up at night. You're a really good writer, but seriously, you can't do this. Okay?"

"James. Don't be an asshole, I'll do what I have to do in order to sleep! If that means I'm up all night with insomnia, then fine, better I do something useful with the time."

"Lily - "

"What about 'stop' do you not understand!"

Now James got that pained look on his face again and gathered me up in his arms, making hushing sounds. "Shh, Lily, I'm not trying to pick a fight. I'm just telling you the truth. Please." He cupped my face gently in his hands, tilting my chin up; a hot flush spread over my cheeks, and I avoided his eyes. To my consternation and chagrin, tears flooded onto my cheeks and I began sniffling pathetically, wetting James's shirt. 

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I'm being unreasonable. I just never get to see you. And I've been all depressive lately. Having a hard time shaking it."

"Shh, shh, don't cry," James whispered. "I'm here now. And we'll get to see each other again soon." He kissed my cheek and rocked me gently, which only made me bawl harder. "Shh. It's okay."

"If you say so." I sniffled and fought to control of myself. "Sorry. I'm being ridiculous."

James kissed me again. His body was slightly tense. "Yeah, you are."

I pulled away and wiped my eyes. "How embarrassing."

"Promise me you'll actually sleep now."

"Sure."

"I mean it. I'm not going to talk to you about your writing or the Order or the weather until morning. And I'm not going fuck you until you've slept for at least eight hours."

That felt like a slap. I laughed a little disbelievingly. "Aren't you supposed to be a hot-blooded caveman or something? I'm an available female." I batted my eyes at him, then sniffled again. And swallowed a nose full of runny mucus. 

James's shoulders slumped a bit, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Breathed. Then looked up and smiled. "Stop messing with me, Lily," he said gently. "Why don't you take off all those clothes and get in bed? I'll join you after I'm showered and don't smell like a goat."

"You don't smell like a goat," I said thickly. He was stripping off his shirt and trousers. The hint of muscles rippling over his lean frame was catching the light of my floor lamp with almost pornographic deliciousness. He looked at me quizzically. 

"Sorry," I said, for the third time. "I'm just enjoying the view. Are you going to toss off in the shower?"

He gave me a supercilious look and took off his boxers. Then he threw his dirty clothes into the laundry basket and helped himself to one of my freshly washed towels. "And so what if I do? I'll last longer in the morning." 

"Touche." The absurdity of my predicament was rising so insistently in my throat that I almost wanted to kill myself. I laughed. "I'm going to remember this forever: 'The day James Potter cock-blocked himself.'"

"I love you too. Now shut up and go to sleep." And with that he turned and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him with absurd finality. My head was foggy with fatigue and frustration, and suddenly it hurt quite a bit; unable to think of anything else to do, I rolled over and laughed silently into my pillow. And then smelled fresh lavender on my sheets, just as I'd intended. I was so relieved not to be smelling dust and weeks-old sweat that I began to weep again. Blinded by tears and aching with the choke of laughter, I stripped off my clothes, tossed them into the laundry basket, and collapsed onto the bed. One yank of the sheets and I was in the dark, asleep. 

I woke briefly to the soft rustle of blankets as James slid into the bed with me, his skin soft and still damp from the shower. I was conscious long enough to feel his hand move over my hips, over my belly and the cusp of my breast. I felt his chest pressed against my back, his lips on my shoulder; and then all was black, all was silent and soft. 

 

* * * * *

 

Sunlight was streaming through the curtains when I awoke. I was still curled up beneath a pile of blankets, and groggy; now that I'd succumbed to the urge to sleep for more than half an hour at a time, I didn't want to wake up. Ever. "What time is it?" 

James stirred behind me, pulling me more tightly against him. "Eleven AM. You outdid yourself. That was twelve hours right there."

I buried my face in the covers to block out the light. "Really? Damn."

"I've been reading your memoir from start to finish for the past hour. You're really obsessed with death, aren't you?"

"What? Not at all. I am Lily. I am loquaciously loftily loony. I love writing shit that sounds deep."

"Ludicrously loopy liar. How bad is your morning breath?"

"Lovingly lethal."

"Mm. I'll bet." James threw a leg over my belly and climbed on top of me, resting his weight against my pelvis. He pushed my hair gently out of my eyes and kissed me. "Glad to have you back." 

"Was I gone?"

James kissed me again, this time with lust. He was already hard. "You were acting like a crazy lady who raided pharmacies at night and ate their toothpaste instead of sleeping like normal people. Do you mind if we spend the next six hours fucking?"

His hand squeezing my breast was delicious. I lifted my hips against him and ran my hands down his back, gripping his buttocks. "Let's do the honors. Indulge me."

 

* * * * * 

 

"Okay, so let me get this straight," James said, his mouth full of roast beef sandwich. He swallowed. "You're writing an obituary for Jonathan Paxton, which you say you don't want to do, and you're doing it because Hestia Jones, who - if I may remind you - was at Hogwarts known as 'The Pastry Girl' and whom you out-classed at her own game, says you should."

"Er. Well. When you put it that way."

"I'm just trying to figure things out here, my ridiculously sexy nymph. Forest nymph, I mean."

"James!"

He cocked an eyebrow at me, looking mischievous. "Sorry," he grinned. "It's just that you were naked all afternoon. And now you're feeding me. I couldn't feel more manly if I tried." He took another huge bite of his sandwich and gulped it down with amazing fortitude. "I'll act civilized now. And I won't say anything about you bending over and letting me eat lemon meringue pie off your bum."

"Right. Not a word."

"Yes ma'am."

We were sitting across from one another at the small wooden dining table in my kitchen, with an impressive amount of food piled up between us. The place looked much cheerier with the lights on - I had to give James credit for pointing that out - and was equipped with surprisingly good cookware. It made the whole business of talking about obituary writing seem much less important, and I had to admit that I felt a bit foolish with him grinning across the table at me the way he was. 

"Right, so," I said. "Yes. I'm writing the obituary for Jonathan Paxton because Hestia Jones asked me to. I guess whoever's been writing them is taking a vacation. Or got reamed out by the Death Eaters for saying something they didn't like. Or something."

"And you don't want to do it?"

I stared at the sandwich in my hands for a moment. I still hadn't bitten into it. A piece of tomato was falling out, dripping juice and mayonnaise onto my plate. "It's just difficult. I mean I don't know the guy from a hole in the wall. Which is a silly thing to whine about, I guess, because they just handed over a whole bunch of records and research and said, 'Hey, you could write this thing in half an hour if you're quick about it, no sweat'. And there was a noticeable lack of volunteers for the task. So I feel kind of obligated."

James gave me an odd look. "Why?"

"I don't know. But anyway. I'm writing it." I bit into my sandwich and relished the taste of fresh tomato and beef. I'd been glamorously living on noodles and broccoli for the past three weeks, and I wondered as I chewed whether I was going crazy partly out of diet-induced anemia. "It's a weird task. At least I knew Alice's family when I wrote their eulogy. I feel like this time I'm dissecting a corpse."

"How appetizing."

I opened my mouth to quip about James suddenly becoming squeamish, but the look on his face made me stop. "So how is everything? At Gringotts, I mean."

James grimaced. "Fantastic, of course." He took a swig of water, seeming to wash down a bit of bile. "I still haven't seen any action the way you people in the train stations and alleys do. But I did see a few rotting bodies and a mutilated goblin this week."

I had been about to swallow, but that gave me pause and I spent a moment trying not to choke. "Really. How did that happen?"

"Someone broke into Gringotts about a week ago, tried to steal a piece of cursed jewelry, I think. I guess the Death Eaters managed to head them off in the middle of it, because we'd been searching for the bodies for days. I was the lucky bloke who stepped on someone's collapsing face. And the guy who got to dispose of the whole scene, seeing how I'm, you know, at the bottom of the food chain and all that."

"You're sure the fact that your family is insanely rich couldn't get you a slightly nicer job?" I asked, and immediately felt ashamed at having suggested it. "I mean, this isn't to say you should try to bribe your way up, but you'd have to work pretty hard to come up with a reason why someone like you should be a janitor. They're just wasting you on a job like that."

James laughed harshly. "No, I volunteered for that job. Everyone in the Order would have been wasted on it. I took the position because they needed someone to do it, and I have enough money that I can afford to do it for free - and it's not like I've been doing it that long; it's only been two months. I'm planning on quitting as soon as they finish training this crop of Aurors. I'll be able to get under someone's wing easily. I just have to wait it out until they've got space to take me on as an apprentice."

"...Oh." I found myself staring open-mouthed at him. "Why didn't you tell me you'd volunteered?"

James smiled. "Because you would have freaked out and told me not to do it."

"Well, who's crazy now? Shit, James. I stay up all night writing about my childhood, you stay up all night searching for dead bodies. Voluntarily."

"Yeah, you can bet I'm foaming at the mouth just thinking about a tube of toothpaste when I find a pile of putrefying human lying about in a small, enclosed area. Breathing the smell and getting it in all in your mouth really makes you appreciate toothpaste. And toothbrushes."

The image was nauseating and brazenly, improperly, almost comical. I shuddered, all the while hating myself for thinking I might want to laugh. James regarded me curiously, seeming to await my response. I decided on a half-laugh, half-grimace. "And to think I sometimes forget how much chutzpah you have."

"Hence the reminders, Lily-tron. Now you'll always know who's got the biggest balls of them all. Without ever having to check."

"My knight in shining armor."

"That is my God-given purpose in life," James said, grinning stupidly at me. "I love you, Lily." 

I grinned back and passed him another sandwich, which he happily took. "I love you too, James."

But even with the expression of unadulterated contentment on his face, something darker and not so cheery lingered. It was not self-pity - I hadn't seen that on James for several years - but it clearly weighed on him. A look of carefully contained somberness. Of responsibility, perhaps. 

 

* * * * *

 

James and I had only the following night off before we had to return to our respective shifts, so in the evening we decided to take a short trip out of London, to a remote wooded area neither of us could locate on a map. We didn't know if the place was named; we didn't know if it was even in Britain. But it was beautiful, a snowy landscape of hills, evergreens, and rocky gorges. There was a waterfall, about forty feet high and frozen over now, near a clearing we frequented on our days off. In our jeans and snow boots we walked over the icy rocks at its base, slipping, falling, laughing as we tried to catch one another. James, who had more strength and superior balance, was better at it than I. "I keep having to make a point of not planting my face on these rocks," he laughed, holding me up by my armpits as I slipped and skidded. "You're too impatient to get to where you're going, you have to quit jumping around."

"I'm not jumping around," I giggled, brushing hair and snow out of my eyes. "I am just lacking the proper zen."

"I like how you imply that I'm filled with zen." He nuzzled the back of my neck. 

"You know I exist purely to stroke your ego." I kissed him and didn't pull away until I slipped again and nearly sent us crashing onto a large pile of rocks. 

And that was how we spent the evening - walking through the snowy woods, tripping in the snowbanks, breaking icicles off the trees and sucking the water off them; when the sun set, James Transfigured a rock into a lantern, which we took turns carrying as we wended our way through a forest of rich, thick evergreen boughs. Eventually we grew cold and stopped in a small clearing, where I brushed a pit into the snow and lit a fire. James and I stood before it, warming our hands and feet as steam rose from our sodden clothes. 

"Try that thing you did once, when you got it to change shape."

I concentrated and flicked my wand at the flames. Something resembling a fish flickered into sight. I squinted and flicked my wand again; the fish's tail fin only grew broader. "That was supposed to be a bird, but I guess a fish is good enough."

"I'll take it," James yawned. "It's warm and it dances."

"That'll be fun to write into my memoir, the time we tried to dance in the dormitories that ended with me somersaulting over the back of one of the armchairs."

"That was hot," James said. "Your shirt rode up about a mile. And I hadn't known until then that you were that flexible."

"Can't argue with the truth, I guess."

"You know what I love about this," James mused, "it's the fact that it's been two hours and neither of us has mentioned work."

"Jinx."

"Savoring the sanity, you mean."

I laughed ruefully. "Or the rest of the world is crazy and we're mad. Either way, we'll never know."

"Lily," James said, giving me a wisftul smile, "look up. The stars are out. This is why I like to come out here with you. You can look up at the sky and see the stars through. And if you bother to look long enough, you'll even see them twinkle."

I looked up. It wasn't just the stars that were out - it was the entire Milky Way, visible as a faint, pearly stripe of violet and blue, half-hidden by the trees. I closed my eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of winter and pine. "I have a confession," I said after a time. "I feel incredibly stupid when we're out here."

"Why is that?"

"Because it's like the paint job in my brain suddenly changes when you're around and we're away from all the death and fighting, and my sense of irony disappears."

There was a beat of silence, and James simply continued to look up at the sky. Then he exhaled, his breath a cloud of steam dispersing into the night, and put his arm around me. "Well," he said, pressing his lips against my forehead, "I'm glad to be of service. Because being with you does make me very happy." 

 

* * * * *

 

Going back to work really was like having a different mental paint job. The mail room was in a drab state as usual when I got there the following morning, with loose parchment and envelopes cluttering up almost all of the visible desk space. A freezing rain had begun to fall an hour earlier, so that now the windows were in the process of glazing over with an inch of solid ice; all of the owl windows had been shut for the morning, with the owls themselves grudgingly perched on a slightly dizzying array of pegs on the wall. Hestia Jones was in her usual spot, looking pale and a bit run-down, and mindlessly waving her wand to and fro over a stack of letters. Each time the tip of her wand moved to her right, a letter slid into an envelope, which then addressed itself. Hestia had the look of someone who had been doing this for several mind-numbing hours already. There were two empty coffee cups on her desk, where she ordinarily kept her writing supplies. 

"Anything you want me to take off your hands?" I asked. 

My question seemed to have broken her trance, and she started a little before looking up. "Oh, Lily," she said, as if she'd completely forgotten I was supposed to be there. "Hi. Yes, if you could take a stack of these and deal with them, that'd be lovely."

Wordlessly, I did as she requested and sat down at a desk next to hers. "Where are these going?"

"Blue seals mean Department of Mysteries," Hestia said. "Red are for the Wizengamot. Actually, I put a charm on all of these that'll tell you where the letters are going, if you tap the seals and look pretty."

I nodded and sighed inwardly. I thought about experimenting with a few different charms for addressing the letters more efficiently and even considered making a suggestion to Hestia, but thought better of it. Her voice had a slight edge to it, as if she'd stop being polite as soon as I stepped a bit sideways and landed on her toes. "So what happened with the train that went off the rails?" I asked carefully. "I was off-shift when they were investigating, and I haven't heard anything over the past day."

"Ah, so you were sleeping," Hestia said, a bit testily. "I was wondering if you'd ever get to that. Anyway, yes, I was on duty with the group they sent out to survey the accident. A whole bloody night of walking over wrecked cargo. And Muggle-proofing the scene. It took us until six in the morning to wipe their memories and get them out of there."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"There were a few injuries. Nothing serious, as the conductor appeared to have realized there was a problem in time and hit the emergency brakes before they went careening over the wrecked tracks at eighty miles per hour. Horrific amount of monetary losses, though. That train was supplying half the apothecaries in Wizarding Britain. All that cargo - spilled all over the place, soaked into the dirt. Millions of Galleons. Disastrous."

My stomach sank. The Order of the Phoenix consumed a huge amount of potions and potion ingredients provided by the local apothecaries each month - with our rate of injuries due to hexes, curses, and confrontations with the Death Eaters, we were second only to St. Mungo's and the potions classes of Hogwarts. "Do you think we're going to have a supply shortage?"

"You should hope to Merlin not," Hestia said, smiling mirthlessly.

"I do," I said uselessly. "Is there anything else you want me to take care of today? You look like you could use a break."

"Write that obituary." Hestia's smile hadn't changed. "His father sent an owl this morning asking for it."

""...Ah."

"Make it good, too," Hestia added, a note of irony in her voice. "You could make a nice bundle on it if Paxton Senior is pleased."

Something about her voice sounded barbed, and, feeling defensive, I finished addressing her letters with a swift flick of my wand. She started and looked at me. "How did you do that?"

"Modified sorting charm, I think," I said, clearing my throat. "Right. Obituary. I'll get to it right now."

Hestia only regarded me strangely.

 

* * * * *

 

I spent the rest of the shift working on the obituary - that is to say, I spent the rest of the shift sifting through the mess of documents Hestia had provided me, struggling to think of a workable angle from which to tell Paxton's story. The clock ticked relentlessly through the morning and early afternoon, seeming to crush itself into the spaces between my ears and brain with each twitch of its hands. After about an hour of this, I began to feel claustrophobic, so I got up and paced along the wall where the owls were perching; but this only heightened my anxiety, so I sat back down and stared at the blank parchment before me. Disparate thoughts skittered across my mind. How could we know the monetary value of a person's soul? Was I supposed to hide Paxton's alcoholism and bring him off as a saint? Surely I should refrain from writing about his support for the Order of the Phoenix and risk getting his father killed - but didn't the fact that the request for an obituary had landed on my desk imply that he wanted someone from the Order, who knew about his son's contributions, to write about him? Which newspaper would publish the obituary? Oh, Paxton had been so young. Too young to die. Too stupid to know not to drink himself to death - or too helpless to overcome his alcoholism. An empty suit. Riding the shirttails of a railroad tycoon. Living the high life, drunkenly threatening to kill a taxi driver, drunkenly destroying millions of Galleons' worth of talking marble sculptures at a five hundred thousand Galleon house party. Drowning in his own vomit. Everything hushed up. Until now?

I didn't understand him. How could I possibly know him from his medical records?

Eventually I got up the nerve to ask Hestia for her opinion. 

"You don't have to know him," she answered impatiently. "Nobody reading his obituary is going to know him. Of course his father doesn't want you to make him sound like a drunken fuck head"¦sorry, excuse me." She paused to sip from her coffee mug, blushing a little. "All I'm saying, Lily, is that the point of an obituary isn't to bare the ugly truth to the public, it's to notify them about the person's death and provide them with a bit of backstory. All you really have to do is write a short biography of him. Who he was, what he did, some vague nonsense about how he died. Make him sound like a good guy. Remember him fondly. You know. That sort of thing."

"It's going to be a security risk to his father if I mention anything Paxton did that was good," I said flatly. 

Hestia's eyes flashed. But then she smiled. "So don't be specific about it. Just say he was a philanthropist. Generous bloke."

I considered this; she was right. I shrugged my concession. 

"Oh, come on, Lily," Hestia said irritably. "You wrote a eulogy when you were seventeen. You went parading around Hogwarts with half a book's worth of who knows what you were writing practically every day. You were also at the top of your class. Stop acting stupid. Just write the bloody obituary. You know what to do."

I was silent for a moment, stunned. "When did I parade anything?"

Hestia looked at me as if I were crazy; for a moment I thought she was going to yell at me for deliberately being thick. But then her expression softened. She turned away. "I'm sorry. I'm just in a bad mood. And you were always winning writing awards at Hogwarts. I just didn't expect you to have any trouble with this, that's all."

I blinked. "What writing awards? I wrote an advertisement for Honeydukes once. They took it because they liked the jingle I came up with. And the parchment rolls you saw me carrying around were probably all essays for class."

Hestia blushed and refused to meet my gaze. "Lily, kindly shut up, all right? I'm sorry I got snappy with you."

"It's fine," I said quickly. "Thanks for the advice." With that, I went back to staring at my parchment. And failed utterly to come up with a single worthwhile sentence. 

 

* * * * *

 

Writing the melodrama into death is easy to do. You choose your favorite set of overblown metaphors, be they filled with the love of birds, sunsets, or over-described fallen leaves, and then you think about something depressing, to the point where you are convinced that you yourself want to die, and begin writing about death as if you can count yourself amongst the bereaved - regardless of whether you are bereaved or not. You do not spare a single moving detail, and the details that aren't moving, you either exclude completely, or describe with such maudlinness that the mere presence of the words fools you into thinking you should be moved. And then, if you find that you can't stomach the descriptions you've produced, you trim them down until you can read them without gagging. 

I spent several more hours wrestling with myself over how not to do this to Jonathan J. Paxton. I couldn't tell if I loved him or hated him, or even if I was indifferent. The emotion of writing blocked all judgment from my mind, until I was finally so fed up that I scrawled the following in roughly eight minutes:

_Jonathan J. Paxton Born January 18, 1952 Deceased February 19, 1979_

_It has been said by some that Jonathan J. Paxton was the face of the Gwydion Railroad; indeed, he was often his father's ambassador. An educated, literary man, he charmed many and entertained many more, leading a life surrounded by Britain's rich and famous. And certainly he was one amongst them: an heir to his father's millions, Jonathan Paxton could have chosen to live on the Riviera and never look back._

_But he did not. In a time when our country is wracked with conflict and bloodshed, Paxton supported peace. He was an avid philanthropist. His many donations to numerous and admirable causes will always be remembered by all of us who carry the mantle of peace. May he live on in our hearts and memories._

 

* * * * *

 

"Thank you," Hestia said, as I handed her the piece of parchment. "Right on time for the next shift, too. Nice work."

"Thanks," I replied. I had a massive headache. "I guess I'm going to get a move on. Can't be late."

"Good luck."

The obituary was published the following day. I read it from my usual spot in the train station, behind the coffee counter, to the sound of the late-night trains coming, going, roaring white-hot and billowing from out of the dark.   


 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

**Author's Note:** First, I want to apologize for making it sound (three years ago) like I wasn't going to take a three year hiatus from this story. I never really wanted to abandon it, but the truth is that I hadn't the faintest idea where any of it was going - and I was drowning in math homework. Such is the life of an engineering student. Oh well. Graduation has its perks. Like time to come back and write again for the fun of it. :)

I may soon be too busy again to update. But until then, I'm going to have some fun with this. For what it's worth, I hope you guys have enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. 


	5. Ark

**\- Chapter 4: Ark -**

February was a slow month for low-level shift workers such as myself in the Order of the Phoenix. We had all the usual problems - too few people; too little money; too little time. But for the inexperienced and green-gilled people like me, business at Headquarters was business as usual: Wake up, show up for your sentry shift, and blow the whistle if you were still awake by the time anything noteworthy had happened. It was the trained Aurors, Charm-Breakers, assassins, spies, and Healers who dealt with the real trouble, and God bless them, they were all too noble to let infants of my type do much of the heavy lifting. We were their children.

Every one of us knew, of course, that we would be spared less and less as more and more of them were killed. Some of us dealt with this better than others. James seemed to have steeled himself for the day when he would be sent out to replace an Auror or an assassin, and appeared not to see the possibility of dying as a point of contention or relevance; I, on the other hand, didn't want to die. I imagined myself in confrontations with Death Eaters and striking killing blows before they had the time to hurt me. I imagined killing out of terror of being killed and shuddered at the floods of adrenaline the thought of homicide pumped into my bloodstream - and then I imagined freezing, right there on the spot, not knowing what to do or how to do it; I imagined wasting precious seconds fumbling for my wand, being bound and gagged, being lashed with curses from behind because I was simply too preoccupied to watch my back. And I believed that this, if I was going to die at the hands of a Death Eater, was how I would inevitably do it. The thought made my heart race and my mind cloud over with bright lights, like the aura before a migraine or an epileptic seizure. I did not want to die. 

As the month of February dragged on, so the poetry drained out of the idea of death. Perhaps it was the boredom of sitting in the train station every night, when a year ago I'd slept the nights in my dormitory at Hogwarts; perhaps it was the novelty of defying the Dark Lord wearing thin. Perhaps it was the fact that I saw daylight for less than ten minutes per day, or the fact that I hadn't written home to my parents in months - or the fact that I had graduated from Hogwarts nearly as sheltered as I had been when I'd entered, and had not yet adjusted to life in the Order of the Phoenix. Rarely did it occur to me that depression and a general inability to cope were the natural consequence of a sleepless and borderline pointless lifestyle. I had only been defying the Dark Lord for six months. 

I was walking home from my night shift at King's Cross on one particularly cold, damp night when Alice Pearce - soon to be Alice Longbottom - cornered me at an intersection, footfalls slapping the wet pavement as she ran to catch up with me. "Lily!" she shouted. "Hold up!"

I turned around, wondering what would possess her to yell my name at four in the morning when there were quite possibly Death Eaters at large. She was waving a limp piece of parchment in one hand, the other holding her coat closed. Strands of wet blonde hair were slipping loose from the ribbon at the nape of her neck. "You look like you're afraid someone's going to jump you," she panted, slowing down as she came up beside me. 

"I am afraid someone's going to jump me," I replied, galled by the way she was speaking - as if there wasn't a soul around to hear her. "Do you have to say that so loudly?"

"Relax, Lily, I put a Scrambling Charm on my lipstick. Everyone who hears me talking thinks I'm just whistling a tune - except you and a couple of others inside my honorary circle. Walk with me and delight the world with your whistling, too." She patted my hand and pressed a tube of pale mauve lipstick into my palm. "Gryffindor's honor. I am not sick."

"How did I fall in with this brilliant crowd," I said stupidly. 

Alice smiled and kissed me on the cheek. "Great minds think alike. Now try to giggle as if you're tipsy and walking home from a bar. A drop of this stuff might help you," she added, holding out a small amethyst flask. "Drink it, it tastes like chamomile and honey."

"What is that?"

"Open up." Alice held the flask to my lips and tipped it forward; I opened my mouth and swallowed for fear she'd spill the stuff down my robes and set them on fire. 

I gulped. It really was soothing; immediately a warm glow began spreading down my throat and into the pit of my stomach. I felt my muscles relax. I laughed a little. "Which potion is that? I don't remember making anything like it at Hogwarts."

"Relaxing potion, obviously," Alice said with a quirk of a smile. "Originally intended for use before bed, but when I stopped being able to walk around without chewing a hole in my side, I started taking it. Makes you much less conspicuous, too. Death Eaters are always watching for someone who looks like they're afraid of being followed."

"It doesn't cut into your alertness?"

"Not that I've noticed. But then again, I feel so much better on this stuff than off it that I really can't say. I just know I haven't gotten killed yet."

"Some of us Apparate everywhere," I said bemusedly. "Why don't we?"

Alice giggled. "Last time I checked it was because you were afraid of splinching yourself - you were too tired to make sure you Apparated the right way. Or some bung like that." For some reason she seemed to find this unbearably funny; she giggled harder and clutched my shoulder for support. "There's no reason to walk around at all. We're stupid, Lily."

"Stretching out, getting some circulation going after eight hours of watching a train platform, yeah. Pretty stupid," I agreed. 

"Besides. Who in the world would care if a pair of giggling girls were out and about in Soho?"

"Not a person in their right mind."

"Now you underst - " Suddenly she stopped and drew her wand. "Wait." She grabbed my shoulder. "Did you hear that?"

I glanced around and stood poised for ambush, scanning the empty streets for signs of motion. She was right; something was whooshing through the air, perhaps twenty or thirty feet above us. Adrenaline began to course through my veins. I drew my wand. "Sounds like something flying. Definitely not Muggle."

Alice's gaze had sharpened, her eyes glinting now with the expectation of violence. "Let's get behind those dumpsters. Now."

"We don't have time, get down!" I shouted, throwing Alice to the ground as a black, freezing wind came rushing over our heads. "Dementors," I panted. A deep, chilling despair was prickling through my skin, into the pit of my stomach. "Mouth to the ground, mouth to the ground, don't let them grab your face -"

"Get off me!" Alice shrieked, kicking the Dementor gripping her leg with one slimy, rotting hand. My whole body, however, was crushed beneath it. It was as if my arms were freezing, disappearing utterly; I could neither feel nor move my wand hand. "Don't - you - come - near me!" Bucking violently, Alice smashed her foot into the creature's head, causing it to rattle and hiss with terrifying voracity. Its hands crept up her body, claws ripping her coat. _"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_ Alice screamed, her feet still crashing down on the Dementor's skull. Her boots came away covered in putrid slime. _"EXPECTO -"_

A silver bear erupted from the tip of her wand and reared up on its hind legs, swinging its paws mightily. It opened its jaws in a silent roar, causing the Dementor to recoil. A burning sensation burst over my arms and torso as the Dementor flew away, hissing and rattling as it went; immediately I snatched my wand and scrambled to my feet. My head was spinning with nausea and despair. "Over there," I gasped, pointing. Alice's Patronus was fading. "Take cover. More of them coming, go!" 

Alice threw herself behind a row of garbage bins and crouched behind them, wand at the ready. I leaped behind an adjacent dumpster and pointed my wand at the sky. _"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

This time it was a silver doe that cantered forward, meeting the Dementors head-on; there was a brief flash of light, and then they scattered. I collapsed against the dumpster, shaking. 

Several feet away from me, Alice bent over and retched. "Bloody - fuck," she said, gagging. "Let's not ever - ever - do that again."

I got up and put my hand on her back. "Are you all right?"

Alice retched again, then spat. "Fine," she said, still looking nauseated. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Ugh." She spat one more time. "Bloody embarrassing, puking after seeing a Dementor. A full year of Auror apprenticeship and this is the first time it happens to me." 

"Most people wouldn't be alive to puke after wrestling a Dementor like that. I think you're probably okay."

"Have you got any chocolate?"

I nodded and handed her the chocolate frog in my pocket. 

"Brilliant. Thanks." Alice unwrapped it and broke it in half. "Here, you take the rest. Want the card?"

"Dumbledore? Sure, I'll take another one of him." "Be nice if there were another of him to liven things up at Headquarters," Alice said shakily, wiping sweat from her forehead. "That was way too close. Good thinking having a chocolate frog in your pocket, though. I ate mine after a run-in with these fuckers yesterday afternoon and forgot to replace it."

"I heard about that. What mission were you on, though?"

"We were bringing a couple of Death Eaters to Azkaban," Alice replied. "Always a risky business. You know, because the Dark Lord is at large and everything, and the Dementors have been multiplying all around the prison periphery. We've got loads of our own people in there too. The Dark Lord put them there, and the Minister of Magic hasn't done anything about it because he doesn't want to provoke any more trouble. Anyway, the Dementors are out of control. You go to Azkaban knowing you're going to have to put up a fight, no matter whose side you're on."

A cold feeling began to twist in my stomach again, even though there were no Dementors nearby. "We don't see much of that sort of thing where I am," I said. "I've seen a lot of fishy activity and Stunned quite a few people, but that really seems like nothing next to what you're doing."

"Yeah, well, you sort of sign up for that when you become an Auror." Alice smiled blandly. "Anyway, if you really want to get yourself mauled, nobody's stopping you from quitting sentry work and signing up to be an Auror. Or a spy. You've done your time in the Order - we've got greener people than you now."

I pursed my lips. Alice had graduated in the same year that I had. 

"We should either get home now or go back to Headquarters and spend the night," she said, breaking my trance. "I might just sleep on a couch next to Moody's office. The last thing I need after a scare like this one is to wake up at seven to the sight of more Dementors swooping through my window."

I considered the gravity of her statement for a moment, and then decided that Alice probably had the right idea. "Would you kill me if I had a light on while you slept?"

Alice managed a grin. "If it means you're keeping watch, then absolutely not."

I sighed. "I'm a sentry, that's what I do best. Let's go. And let's Apparate this time."

* * * * *

The floor in the common room at Headquarters was hard as a rock, of course - which was just as well, because as soon as I wanted to sleep, I'd be out and that would be it; but until then, I'd be largely disinclined to lie down, which was helpful in staying up for most of the night. At any rate, the common room was quiet, but hardly empty; there were always a handful of people hanging around Headquarters at any given hour. Among them were the early risers who would show up at five in the morning to work on a lead or review a case, and the night owls coming and going from various missions and shifts. 

There was a misplaced-looking aloe plant sitting in the corner of the common room, between two windows through which there streamed a dim gray light. It was not enough to write by, but I took up next to the aloe plant anyway and snapped off the tip of one of its leaves. Mechanically, I squeezed the piece of leaf until the sap came out, then rubbed it down my arms, onto the bridge of my nose, under my eyes. The sap was sticky, but soothing to the cuts I'd gotten during the night's confrontation. I regretted the decision to sleep a headquarters and wished James were with me, so naturally - once I had found myself a roll of parchment and a quill - I passed the lonely hours of the morning scrawling more memories from childhood. 

* * * * *

"You're never going to get that ark to sail."

Noah, squatting in the sand, didn't look up. "Yes I will. It's wood, wood floats."

"Not if you don't give it a crew," Edwin said doubtfully. "You have to give it a crew."

"It's too small to have a crew," Noah said, carefully tying his three pieces of driftwood together with a string of seaweed. "There isn't even a deck."

"It has to be big enough to carry something," I said. "It's an ark. And your _name_ is Noah."

A wave crashed ashore in and swept over our feet, wetting our shorts. It caught Noah's seaweed and tugged it loose, dragging a piece of driftwood with it; with a shriek, Noah leapt into the surf and splashed after it, tripping on himself and skidding into the water on his belly. "Come back here, you stupid piece of wood!"

"Rahh!" Edwin yelled, running into the surf after his brother. "The storm is coming! It's going to wipe out all the animals!" And then he threw himself face-first into the water, kicking up a splash of mud and water. "The monsters are coming! Roarrrr!"

Figuring that it was best to leave the boys to battling the flood, I squatted on my haunches and began digging through the sand, looking for animals to put on Noah's ark. Wet sand smashed its way under my fingernails, into the creases of my palms, between my toes. Small pebbles and bits of broken shell scraped against my skin; I rinsed my hands repeatedly to keep them clean, but found only that this made the sand stick to me more eagerly. 

After a time I found a cluster of small clams buried in the sand. Eagerly, I grabbed my plastic shovel and began to dig them up, scattering sand and clam shells everywhere. "Hey!" I shouted. "Hey, I found something!"

Immediately Edwin and Noah came splashing back to shore. Edwin kicked sand over the hole I'd dug as he came to a halt. "Is it a lobster?"

"Clams!" I said enthusiastically. "Their shells are open! We can put them on the ark!"

Noah nodded and rubbed his chin. "We'll have to tie them down," he declared, "or they'll fall off." And with that he picked up the bucket of clams, sloshing most of the water over the edge in the process, and immediately began tying them onto his bundle of driftwood with the seaweed. "These knots are really tight," he said, "but they might slip."

"Make them tighter," Edwin said. "Double knot them!"

Noah obeyed. One of the clams shot out from beneath the seaweed knot and landed in the water with a small plunk, whereupon the tide promptly carried it away. Noah frowned. "If the knots are too tight, the clams fall out."

"Then you didn't tie them tight enough," Edwin said impatiently. "Let me do it."

"No! My _name_ is Noah. _I_ know how to get the animals on the ark."

"Noah didn't save all the animals by _himself,"_ Edwin said scornfully. 

And with that, they set about fastening the clams to the driftwood, bickering. After several minutes of this they declared the ark ready to sail. "Here," Edwin said, holding the driftwood out for me to examine. It was a mess of knotted seaweed with perhaps one or two clams successfully attached. "We made seat belts for the animals in case the ark sinks. That way they'll be safe," he added with a grin, "and can take over the world!" He jumped up and began spinning in circles, laughing, and then ran into the surf. He bent over and put the driftwood down on the surface of the water, where it immediately began to bob with the waves; and then he jumped up again and came running back to shore, still laughing. 

And this was how our ark sailed. Within a few minutes, it was gone. 

* * * * *

Petunia was the one who answered when I rang the doorbell, panting and gleeful, still covered with sand. "God, what have you been _doing,"_ she said, her nose pinched in disgust. "Why don't you ever listen to Mum and not get the house all dirty?"

"I'm not getting the house all dirty."

"Yes you are. And you need a bath. Come on, I'm going to give you one."

I shrieked and yanked my arm away from her. "I don't need _you_ to give me a bath!"

Suddenly Petunia looked hurt, as if I'd hit her. "I'm just trying to take care of you."

I was stunned. Petunia? Take care of me? All she ever seemed to want to do was ruin my fun. And now I'd hurt her feelings because I didn't want her giving me a bath?

Not knowing what else to say, I stuck out my tongue and gave her the meanest look I could muster. "I don't care. I can take a bath myself." Then I whirled and stomped off toward the bathroom. 

It wasn't until I was sullenly sitting in a tub full of half-spent bubble bath and lukewarm water that I heard Petunia crying to our mother. They must have been right next to her bedroom door, which was directly across the hall; I could hear everything they were saying. 

"Now, Petunia, calm down. Lily's just young. I appreciate you trying to help me keep the house clean. That was very nice of you. But don't let her upset you so much."

"But - she just yanked her hand away," Petunia hiccuped. "And then she stuck out her tongue at me! She was trying to be mean!"

"Okay, I'll have a talk with her in a little while. But you need to calm down, Petunia. You're the older sister, and it's your job to set a good example for Lily. Do you understand?"

I heard Petunia sniffle. "She just needs to _grow up_ already!"

"Your sister is only five, dear. She's not going to act like she's your age, because she isn't. She'll grow out of this someday. But until then, you need to be nice to her, because if you aren't, she's going to hate you by time she's a teenager. You two could be the best of friends if you wanted to. But I'm telling you, Petunia, it's your job not to pick fights, because Lily isn't as mature as you are."

"She's not mature at _all."_

"That's because she's only five," Mum said patiently. "Can you do the right thing and be patient with her?"

A sniffle. Silence. Then: "Well, you're just going to have to go to your room and not come out again until you're ready to be nice. And when you are ready, I expect you to apologize to Lily. In you go."

"But that's not _fair,_ I - "

"No more funny business, young lady!" Mum snapped. "You know the rules. Now stay in your room until you're ready to act mature again, or you'll be sorry you ever picked on your sister. I mean it." At this Petunia made a loud huffing noise, and then the door slammed shut. 

A moment later there came a knock on the bathroom door. "Lily? Can I come in?"

I froze. I was afraid Mum was going to yell at me. 

"Lily?"

"What?" I demanded. 

"Can I come in?"

I didn't want her to come in and see me naked in the bathtub, but I was afraid to say no. "Okay," I said meekly. 

The door creaked open and Mum stepped softly inside. She came and knelt beside me, resting her forearms on the edge of the tub. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, with strands of it falling loose about her face. She had golden hair and green eyes, just like mine; I thought she was beautiful. I drew my knees up to my chest and hugged them, refusing to look at her. 

"Lily," she said softly. "Why did you stick your tongue out at your sister?"

I was silent for a moment. Then, grudgingly, I said, "Because she was being stupid and bossy."

"Now, Lily, that's no way to talk about your sister. You wouldn't like it if she talked that way about you, would you?"

"She _does_ talk that way about me," I said angrily. "I heard her. She called me immature and mean."

"That's because your sister was very upset by what you did today. Just because she was upset doesn't mean she's allowed to be bossy or mean, and I told her that. But if you want her to be nice to you, you also have to be nice to her. Do you understand?"

I scowled. "Yes."

"Okay. Now when you finish your bath, I expect you to tell Petunia you're sorry for sticking your tongue out at her."

I rolled my eyes. "She won't listen."

"Yes, she will. And you will tell her you're sorry. I don't care if you don't want to."

The look in Mum's eyes scared me. I shrank in the tub, pulling my knees closer to my chest. "What if I don't do it?"

Mum glared at me. "Then I'll punish you, and you'll be very, very sorry, young lady."

I cowered; I felt as if my insides were shriveling. "I'll say I'm sorry."

At this Mum's glare softened, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. That's the right thing to do. Now you just finish your bath, get dressed, and go talk to your sister." She got up and left, closing the door softly behind her; I went limp as soon as I heard it click shut, wondering what terrible things my mother would do to me if I didn't listen to her. I couldn't imagine a punishment awful enough to match her terrifying glare. Would she take my favorite stuffed animal and stab it? Would she spank me? I was too afraid to ask. 

Just then I heard my father come into the hallway, sounding as if he were carrying something heavy. "You talk to the girls, Laurel?"

Mum sighed. "Yeah, they're good and scared now."

"You always made a better disciplinarian than I did." 

There was some shuffling, then a bump and the creak of a door. "Yeah, well, there are about a million things I'd rather be doing than terrorizing the kids. I hate doing that. They're ordinarily so good." 

"What if they weren't, though?"

Mum laughed, not sounding amused at all. "That wouldn't happen, because I'd whip them in line so fast it'd make their heads spin."

"Magic touch, eh."

"What's the point of having kids if you're not going to raise them?"

Something heavy thudded to the floor. "Duly noted, darling. I trust your judgment. Now, where did you say you wanted to hang those still-lifes, again?"

* * * * *

I woke up to the sound of multiple people traipsing into the common room, boots squeaking on the shoe mats by the entrance. I had apparently fallen asleep with my head against the base of the aloe plant's pot; my neck ached terribly and my eyes felt as if they were going to bleed. Pieces of parchment were strewn across my lap, the tip of my quill lying in large spot of dried ink. The ink bottle had been sitting uncorked beside me for several hours. 

The sound of approaching footfalls grew louder, and I started. Not wanting to appear to have gone completely loony, I gathered up my materials and stuffed them into my pockets. I worried momentarily that I might be committed to St. Mungo's for appearing emotionally disturbed, but then Kingsley Shacklebolt and Remus Lupin strode right up to where I was sitting and greeted me. 

"Well, hello, Lily," Kingsley said, smiling. "How are you?"

"Yeah, would you like some coffee?" Remus asked, giving me an odd look. "You've apparently had a busy night."

I stared at them in confusion for a moment; my mind was cloudy and I couldn't seem to marshal the correct words. A moment later I managed something that might have been a grin. "Yeah, busy," I said, ruffling my hair in the hopes that it would help me clear my head. "Thought I'd stay here after an incident with a couple of Dementors. Seemed safer than going home to a flat surrounded by Muggle tenants."

"Yes, Alice told us about it," Remus said. He seemed agitated. "Tell me again why you two chose to walk home in the middle of the night when there were Dementors flying around?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but Kingsley cut me off. "Plenty of us still walk the streets at night, Remus. Sometimes it's less conspicuous than Apparating. It depends on the area."

Remus's mouth twitched, but when Kingsley put a calm hand on his shoulder, he didn't say anything. "Right," he said after a moment. Then he thrust out his hand and held it out to me. I took it and he helped me up. "Good morning, Lily. There are a good handful of people in the breakfast room. Care to join us?"

Still confused, I brushed my clothes off, straightened my robes. They were stained with dried mud and salt. "Sure. I'd love to."

The breakfast room was surprisingly busy for such an early hour. Indeed, there was a long table covered with breakfast foods - toast, eggs, apples, oranges, pastries, coffee, milk, juice - and many of my shift mates were there, milling about and talking in low, business-like tones. Alice was in the corner with Frank, holding out her wrists as if she were showing him something, and he was murmuring something I couldn't make out. He looked a bit disheveled, but otherwise reasonably awake. Alice, on the other hand, looked as if she was in a foul mood. Frank pulled her into an embrace and she put her arms around his shoulders, rolling her eyes. 

"Lily," came a voice from behind me. "Well hi. What brings you here?"

Startled, I rounded on the owner of the voice. To my embarrassment, it was James. His hair was standing up as usual, and he was peering at me amusedly over a mug of coffee. "James," I said. "Wow. Hi."

"You look like you did when you still hated me."

I shivered. "I do? I'm sorry - it's just been a long night." 

James nodded and offered me his mug, which I gratefully accepted. "Yeah, I can tell," he said. "I mean, Alice was telling everyone she could find this morning about the Dementors, but you don't look well. Are you all right?"

I stared down at my boots for a moment. They were as dirty as the rest of me. "Yeah, I'll live."

"Come here." 

I stepped forward and allowed James to fold me into a hug, letting myself lean on him. I buried my face in his shoulder and inhaled the scent of relatively fresh laundry and that subtle, slightly intoxicating odor that was so specifically James. "How are you doing?" I asked, my voice muffled against his neck. 

"I'm okay. I got to stop at home for a few hours and clean up. But cat napping off duty helps too."

I laughed. "I'm sure."

"You should try it sometime."

"Right. I will."

James released me and looked at me searchingly for a moment. Then he smiled and tapped the tip of my nose with his finger. "Okay."

I smiled back and said nothing, letting my hands rest lightly on his waist - and it was right then that we were approached by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Alastor Moody, both of them holding plates of scrambled eggs and toast, Moody looking as grizzled as ever. "Potter," he said. "A word, if you don't mind."

James glanced at me, then at Kingsley and Moody. He nodded uncertainly. "Sure." 

"When are you going to quit doing that janitorial shit?" Moody asked. 

For a split second, James looked surprised - but then he shrugged. "Whenever you can take me on." He helped himself to a piece of toast from the breakfast table and began chewing it. I realized a moment later that he had done this purely for effect. "I hear you guys are pretty busy with apprentices right now, stretched thin and all that."

I looked uncertainly at Kingsley. He returned my gaze and nodded as if to say, You can stay if you want. 

"Good," Moody said. He stabbed a forkful of egg and proceeded to shovel it into his mouth. "Because I gotta be honest with you, Potter, you're too smart to be in the tunnels stepping over bodies and dusting rocks eight hours a day. I don't know why you signed up for that job anyway."

"They just needed somebody to do it, sir," James said nonchalantly. "I have a strong stomach."

I nearly choked on my coffee. _After you almost hurled on my kitchen table talking about dead bodies?_

"That's good too. You're gonna need that," Moody said through another mouthful of scrambled egg. "Now I know you don't want to be conspicuous or anything and get your family in trouble. That's noble. And we've got too many apprentices right now to take you on officially. But if you want to tag along with the Aurors and learn how to do the Death Eaters some serious damage, I'll pull a couple of strings and get you on an assignment in two days. I know you've been waiting. Sound like a good offer?"

James blinked - was this for effect too? "Yeah," he said, running his hand through his hair. "Yeah, that'd be great."

"All right then," Moody nodded. He crammed the last of his toast into his mouth and chewed fiercely. "You're on then. Come by my office first thing after your first shift today and I'll tell you what you're going to do." And with that, Moody stumped away, limping. 

"What happened to his leg?" I muttered. 

"Smashed by a flying anvil," Kingsley said. "He was in a duel last week - Mulciber, I believe - there were a lot of flying objects involved. I didn't think the people at St. Mungo's would be able to get him walking again."

"Ah." I was at a loss. 

A beat of silence. Then James spoke up. "So that's it," he said, squinting after Moody with a critical glint in his eye. "I'm in, then." 

Kingsley nodded. "So it would seem."

"Am I going to have a chance to practice dueling or anything before I go out into the field?"

Kingsley laughed. "Alastor will have you dueling all day for the next three weeks. He'll be merciless, I assure you."

"I'm not going to lie," James said, "that scares me a little."

I only stood there dumbly; the entire room seemed to have ceased to exist. James. Going with the Aurors on high-profile assignments. James, being rewarded for not only his brilliance, but for his apparent shrewdness as well. In all the years I'd known him, I'd never expected him to show himself to be so good at sucking up to authority - good enough that he could actually get results. That was a talent I'd always attributed to the Slytherins - generally, to sleazy people. I had banished from my mind all thought that James was capable of remotely approximating sleazy several years ago. 

And then there was the fact that he was ten times more likely to get himself killed with the Aurors than he would if he remained, effectively, a Gringotts guard on trash duty. I imagined James slouching through the tunnels with a huge sack of garbage slung over his shoulder and a Santa hat on his head, ho-ho-ho-ing as he pointed his wand at every broken-skulled goblin in his path and blew it up. 

"Lily," James said, jerking me out of my reverie. "You should eat something."

I nodded wordlessly and took a pastry from the table. I bit into it. It had raspberry filling. 

James tilted his head. "Are you okay?"

"Don't die, please," I said. 

"Have some faith," Kingsley said kindly. "Alastor wouldn't have done what he did if he thought James wouldn't survive."

"Exactly," James grinned. "Come on, Lily, who do you think you're looking at?" 

"Does having testicles make you crazy?"

"Enough to go out and kill the woolly mammoth, darling." James kissed me passionately, and then ruffled my hair, still grinning. "Anyway, I'm about to be late, so I'll see you soon." He kissed me again. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." And with that he strode off to greet Remus. They exchanged a few words I could't hear, after which James and Remus slapped hands and shook on it. Then Remus thumped James solidly on the back as they turned to leave. The Marauder swagger had not changed in the slightest. 

I put my face in my palm. I felt as though a piece of myself had shriveled up and died. 

Kingsley put his hand on my shoulder. "He'll be okay."

"Right. I know."

Kingsley nodded and gave my shoulder a pat. "Yes. Now take care of yourself, Lily."

"You too."

Kingsley turned and left. I gritted my teeth and left, too. 

* * * * *

There was already a stack of letters and envelopes waiting on my desk when I arrived in the mail room. Aggravated, I shoved them aside and began to make room for my next pile of sorted letters. That was when I noticed the slip of parchment lying curled up on top of the envelopes. 

_As you may have heard, your obituary for Jonathan Paxton went over well. As we have not yet heard from the regular obituary writer, I have enclosed a list of names we would like you to research and write about for next week's Prophet. Please notify us immediately if you are unable or unwilling to complete the job._

_Mathilda Hyppolete_  
Reg Kilkirk  
Dionysus Dimple 

_Thank you._

_\- Cygna Mallard,_  
Assistant Editor  
The Daily Prophet

Angrily, I folded the slip into the shape of a boat and stabbed my quill through the center. Cygna Mallard. I was being conscripted by a fucking duck lady who had the gall to walk around calling herself a swan. 

"I take it you're going to refuse," Hestia said dryly. 

I nearly jumped; I hadn't even noticed that she was there. "No," I said, breathing deeply to slow my heart rate. "I'll do it."

"Oh. Well, you just seemed angry about the note."

"I am," I said sourly. "I don't particularly enjoy writing about dead people."

Suddenly Hestia stood up, knocking her chair back. Her cheeks were flushed; she looked livid. "Then either get over it and shut up, or don't write the bloody obituaries. Because I'll tell you one thing - if you bitch and moan about these as much as you did about Paxton's, I swear I am going to hex you until you have to pull your eardrums out of your arse."

The words hit me like several bricks to the head, but pride kept me angry. I glared at Hestia as coldly as I knew how and flipped her the middle finger. Then I ripped my quill out of its boat and, with a flourish, began writing a template for dozens of obituaries to come. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**Author's Note:** Hi, all. Thanks for reading. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. :) This has got to be the quickest update I've come out with since 2002 - and I'm totally not kidding about that. (Don't get used to it, as I'm going to graduate school in about six weeks.) :P

Cheers, 

\- Jenna 


	6. Objects at Rest

**\- Chapter 5: Objects at Rest -**

I credit my parents' choice of a house near the sea for a piece of my childhood obsession with water. Water fascinated me. One moment it was clear, a color I thought of as transparent gray; the next it was a wild prism of red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, violet. Water could gather the grit from my hands and pool in stagnant puddles that smelled like week-old sweat. It could sweep ashore like a great silver tongue licking foam from the sand, and then suck itself back into the ocean in a single, smooth hush. It could burst over one hundred thousand year-old crests of rock and crash dizzyingly upon itself a quarter of a mile below, a rapid, rushing thing, a thing that struck terror into my heart and left me intoxicated. I could not fathom anything more inebriating than standing at the foot of a waterfall and marveling at the current's overpowering brawn, could not conceive of anything more terrifying than a hurricane over the ocean. Water drew itself up into funnels and sucked tornadoes straight into the underbelly of the sea. Water smashed over you and left your skull bloodied against rocks you'd thought you were standing on. Water suffocated, water killed. It seeped into your lungs behind blood and infections; it forced itself up your nose, down your throat, deep into your chest, and then - it washed the blood from your wounds, swept the muck and slime of your illness right down the drain. 

The smell of ionized water crashing over anything solid gave me a heady feeling - ships of the line, great rocky cliffs and fjords, aircraft carriers, the foot of a lighthouse, anything my grandfather cared to tell me about. It was my grandfather who fed my fantasies about water with his tales of serving in the British Navy. But it was really my own strange, unsettling powers with water that left me so fascinated, at the age of seven, that I nearly caused Petunia a nervous breakdown. 

I was leaning raptly against the sink at our grandparents' house one day after school, watching a thin stream of water pour steadily from the faucet. Both my grandparents were busy puttering about the attic, re-organizing items my parents had left there during our move from London. With Grandfather unavailable to take me out digging for seashells or tell me stories, I had grown bored and decided to amuse myself by trying to move water without the use of my hands. 

"Turn off the faucet, Lily," Petunia said, coming up behind me. Her voice was edgy. "They've got a water bill, you know. Grandmother and Grandfather have to pay for water."

"But look at what I can make it do," I said, staring at the faucet. I concentrated on something that terrified me utterly - the thought of standing on the hand rails of a bridge a thousand feet off the ground and losing my balance. Feeling the railing slip beneath the soles of my sneakers, feeling my head smash onto the railing as I fell. Plummeting towards earth at ever-increasing speed. 

I shuddered and nearly gagged with dizziness and the nausea of falling, and the stream of water pouring gently from the faucet suddenly leapt, twisted in midair - and then exploded, spraying Petunia and myself. I gasped. "Did you see that?" I demanded. "Tuney, I made it explode! Without touching it!" I shuddered again with the thrill of it and went back to gazing intently at the faucet stream. 

"That's impossible," Petunia said, her voice faint. " _Objects at rest tend to stay at rest, unless acted upon by an external force."_

"What?"

"It's Newton's Law of Inertia, I learned about it in school today!" Petunia said shrilly. "You didn't touch that water, you can't have made it explode, it must have been a freak accident - "

"No, no, Tuney, look, I'll do it again - "

"No," Petunia interrupted. I turned around and saw that her face had gone sickly pale. "No, don't do it again, I bet it's dangerous, I'll tell mum to take you to the doctor - "

"But I'm not sick!" I insisted, not understanding what Petunia was going on about. "I just thought of something scary, I don't know what happened, I just scared myself and the water exploded! I feel fine, don't tell Mum - "

"You're sick," Petunia whispered, her eyes wide with fear and wonder. "Lily - do you think it's contagious?"

"But I don't feel sick," I said dumbly. "How can I be sick if I feel fine?"

"People get sick all the time and don't realize it," Petunia said, a strange glint in her eye. "You can have cancer and not know it until you're about to die. But not every sickness kills you. Sometimes you're sick and you don't feel it or die from it, ever."

"I think you're crazy."

"Lily," Petunia said seriously, "do you think you could give it to me?"

I stared at her. "You want me to cough on you or something?"

"Yes," Petunia whispered. 

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if Petunia could possibly be right. I had a feeling I couldn't explain that told me she wasn't, but she was gazing at me with such urgency and desperation that I felt I couldn't refuse. I thought she might die if I did - and for better or worse, she was my sister. So I nodded. "Okay," I said, "I'll teach you."

"But I don't have your"¦sickness."

"It's not a sickness," I insisted. "I learned how to do it. Here, it's easy once you get the hang of it."

Hesitantly, Petunia stepped closer to the sink. She looked at me uncertainly. 

"You have to think about something that scares you to death," I instructed. "Something _really_ scary. I think about falling off a really high bridge and not being able to stop. And sometimes," I added in a hushed voice, shivering, "about being eaten by monsters."

"Sharks," Petunia nodded, her face still pale. "What else do you have to do?"

"You have to think really hard about being scared. Imagine the sharks eating you."

Petunia shuddered and gripped the edges of the sink. 

"Close your eyes," I ordered. 

She obeyed. I stared anxiously at the smooth stream of water still pouring into the sink, down the drain. Nothing happened. 

"Am I doing it?" Petunia asked through gritted teeth. 

She had squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that I could barely make out her eyelashes. Her knuckles were white and her body was so tense that I was filled with the sudden fear that she would break. So I splashed my hand through the stream of water and threw some on the counter, on her clothes. "Yes," I lied. Then I jumped up and splashed some more, convincing myself that she had caused the stream to explode. I laughed delightedly. "Yeah, Tuney, you're doing it!"

Instantly she opened her eyes. Her eyes were alight with relief and happiness; and then she laughed, smiling with a kind of lightness and innocence I had never before seen on her. I jumped up and down some more and clapped my hands to hide my shock. Smiling like that, with her cheeks glowing and rosy, my sister looked beautiful. "I did it!" she exulted, and then - to my even greater surprise - she threw her arms around me and picked me up, swinging me around with such ardor that one of my sandals flew off my foot and went skidding under the table. "Lily, maybe we have special powers!"

"Yeah, maybe," I said, my voice muffled by her shirt. Finally Petunia put me down, still grinning hugely. "Does it get easier with practice?" she asked. 

"I don't know," I lied again. "I think you just have to be able to scare yourself."

Petunia laughed. "That's one thing I'm good at!"

At that age, I was still largely unconcerned with the future, and scarcely worried about it beyond what might happen if I did something truly egregious - at least, until that moment in the kitchen with Petunia. "Yeah," I agreed, smiling uneasily. A feeling of dread was creeping in around the corners of my mind: There would come a day when she would no longer be content to close her eyes when she was performing magic. x.x.x.x.x.xThough I had been making strange things happen to the water and objects around me for nearly a year already, the incident with Petunia left me feeling unusually unhappy. It was a feeling that built up deep in my chest, a haunted feeling that always made me imagine ghosts drifting through the walls, through the floor, through the bathroom mirror. 

"Grandfather," I said as he thumped down the stairs from the attic, "could I use the telephone, please?"

Grandfather peered over the box of wooden carvings he was holding in his arms. "Well, certainly, my dear. Would you like to call your mother?"

"Just a friend," I said meekly. 

"Oh, a friend! Yes, absolutely. Give me a moment to fetch your grandmother's phone book, and you can tell me if your friend's name is in it."

"Thank you, Grandfather."

It was Vicky's number that I asked him to find. At first he looked puzzled and asked me when I'd ever played with a girl named Vicky, but when I explained that she had been my neighbor in London, he seemed to comprehend instantly. He dialed for me and then handed me the telephone, which I took with trembling hands. The ring tone made my heart flutter unpleasantly; I thought it sounded like the moan of a ghost living in the telephone lines - a ghost that moaned when it knew you were there. 

"Hello?" came a woman's voice. Vicky's mother. I nearly balked. 

"This is Lily, Vicky's friend," I squeaked, clutching the telephone. "Is - is she home?"

"Oh, Lily! Yes, Vicky has just come home from school. Here, I'll get her for you. She'll be so happy that you called!"

There was a shuffling sound, then the crackle of breathing into the receiver. Then, faraway and electronic-sounding: "Hello?"

"Hello, Vicky?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Lily."

"Hi, Lily." There was another crackle. 

"How was - er. How was school?" I asked, my toes curling uncomfortably. 

"Good," Vicky replied. "I'm in Mrs. Whiting's class."

"Oh yeah. I heard she's funny."

"Yeah." Vicky made a noise that sounded like a giggle. 

This was slightly encouraging, and I jumped at the opportunity to get a conversation going. "Guess what," I said in a hushed voice, looking furtively at Grandfather. He had politely turned his back and begun to put dry the dishes on the dish rack. "My sister's crazy."

Vicky giggled again, a muffled sound. "Oh, yeah."

"Remember how she used to try to boss us around when Mary was there?"

"Sort of," Vicky replied, seeming to giggle with every word she said. 

"I had to tell my sister she had special powers today," I continued, hoping this would draw a response. "I'm - I'm sort of worried about her."

There was a long pause. Then: "Why?"

""¦What?" I was dumbfounded. How could Vicky ask why I was worried about Petunia when I'd just told her why I was worried? 

Another crackly giggle. "What?"

I stared at the telephone in disbelief. Was she playing some sort of game? After a moment I put the receiver back to my ear and tried again. "I can do this thing with water she can't do," I said. "I can make it explode, but she can't. She really wants to be able to do it, though."

There was a brief shuffling sound, and then Vicky breathing into the receiver again. "My dad needs to use the telephone," she said. I could almost hear the smile in her voice, the stickiness of a blueberry lollipop. "I've got to go, Lily. Talk to you later."

I couldn't believe she was hanging up on me. "Good-bye," I said hurriedly, hoping I could get her to speak for another minute before she left. "Will you give me a ring soon?"

"Uh-huh," Vicky said perkily. "Bye, Lily!"

Click. 

Wordlessly, I set the telephone back on its rack. I wanted to cry. 

"Did you have a nice conversation with your friend, Lily?" Grandfather said over the clatter of the dishes he was now stacking in the cabinet. "How is she getting on?"

"She's fine," I said miserably. "Her dad had to use the phone so she hung up."

"I see," Grandfather nodded. "I'm sure he's a busy man."

"Yeah."

Seeming to sense my distress, Grandfather reached into one of the food cabinets and pulled out a chocolate bar. "Here, would you like some chocolate? I've been saving it for someone special." He winked. 

"Okay," I said, looking at the floor. Grandfather unwrapped the chocolate, broke off a piece, and handed it to me. He patted me on the shoulder. "This will cheer you up. Just don't tell your mother, or she'll think I'm spoiling your dinner." He winked again. 

I smiled a little. "You're always getting yourself into trouble."

Grandfather laughed, a deep, rich sound that warmed me from the inside. "That's me," he said. "I'm a crazy rascal."

"I wish Vicky called me more often."

"Oh," Grandfather said, wrapping up the rest of the chocolate bar and putting it away, "I'm sure she's just busy. You've been busy, haven't you? With your friends in school and those twins down the street?"

"Yeah," I said doubtfully. "All my school friends think I'm weird, though."

"Oh, bosh!" Grandfather harrumphed, ruffling my hair. "You'll probably meet a load of friends in your lifetime who think people like your sister are weird. You're perfectly normal."

I wondered if Grandfather had ever seen me splashing water about simply by staring at it, or making my glass of water shed sparks all over the table. But if he had, I reasoned to myself, he would have commented. And he had never done anything of the sort, so I finished my chocolate and ran my hands under the faucet to rinse off the bit that had melted onto my fingers. 

"Thank you for the chocolate," I said. Rebellion was beginning to stir in my heart. If I was weird, then I would make people like me for it. "Can I go outside for a bit?"

"Yes, you may. I think Petunia went out just a moment ago. Go and find out what she's up to."

At this I grinned. Without another word, I was out the door. 

x.x.x.x.x.x

Finding Petunia was easy, as she never ventured far from the house. She was kneeling precariously in the surf about a hundred feet down the beach, moving her hands over the waves as they licked past her feet, seemingly muttering to herself. She had tied her hair into a low ponytail, the ends wet and already stringy from the briny spray, and she had rolled up the legs of her trousers. She was barefoot and her feet were caked with wet sad. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen her allow herself to get this dirty. 

"I'm trying to see if I can do that thing with my eyes open," she said, her face rapt with concentration. "But it's hard to tell, because the water keeps splashing when it hits the sand."

"I can't do it without closing my eyes," I lied. "You probably shouldn't waste your time with that."

Petunia looked up at me searchingly. "You think?"

"Yeah," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "It works so much better if you're not looking at it."

Petunia looked uncertain for a moment, but then she seemed to acquiesce. "Okay."

"Want to race me?"

Petunia's eyes widened. "You mean, down the beach?"

"Yeah!"

"I'll get even muddier than I already am, though."

I grinned. "So what? Nobody cares when I get muddy. Except when I leave tracks in the house."

Petunia continued to look at me as if I were crazy for several more moments, but then she stood up and gave me a smug look. "All right, brat, you're on."

I laughed. I had won. "On the count of three," I said, poising myself to run. "One...two... _three!"_

And I was off like a shot, Petunia scrambling through the surf beside me, laughing, yelling at me to stop cheating. She had much longer legs than I did, but she was also far less accustomed to running in a foot and a half of surging water. I overtook her easily, splashing water behind me as I went. "I got your face!" I yelled, cackling. "Last one to the buoy's a rotten egg!" 

"Oh no you don't, Lily!" Petunia shrieked, limbs flailing as she tried to catch up with me. "You little cheater!"

"Rotten egg!" 

"You little brat!"

"Rotten egg! Rotten egg!" I laughed, throwing myself into the surf as I passed the buoy. I made a huge splash as I went in, catching a mouthful of salt water as the next wave came sloshing over my clothes. Petunia caught up with me a moment later, gasping, and tackled me, landing on the sandbar with a muffled scrape as I slopped my way further into the surf. 

"You are _such_ a little brat," Petunia panted. 

I giggled. "But you got muddy too."

Petunia let out an exasperated growl and tried to splash me, but I dropped beneath the surface of the water before she could catch me. I came up a moment later, laughing. "Try making the water explode when you're underneath it," I said. "Go on, I dare you!"

Grinning or glaring at me, I wasn't sure which - Petunia pinched her nose shut and dropped beneath the surf. And from that day on - at least, until I went to Hogwarts - we were friends. 

x.x.x.x.x.x

"Well," James said, setting the manuscript down on the bed. "I have to give you credit for keeping your immaculate spelling even as you sat in front of me practically injecting yourself with caffeine." He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer, running his hands through my hair. 

I closed my eyes and let him kiss my forehead, wishing the night would last forever. "But you have to admit that I make a mean cup of coffee," I murmured. "Do I get points for that too?"

He pulled the covers up around us both and continued to stroke my hair. "Of course."

We had both officially quit our shift work - James to make room for dueling sessions and field assignments with the Aurors, and I to make room for the personal interviews I would have to conduct in order to adequately research the obituaries I had agreed to write. Unofficially, of course, we still reported each morning to Headquarters and spent most of our free time either on sentry duty or helping higher-ranking Order members with secretarial work. The main difference between then and now was that we got the nights off if we so chose - not that it made me any more sensible about my sleeping habits. I had spent almost all of the nights this week at James's flat, as he had a larger bed and a more comfortable bedroom, but despite his incessant prodding, I had failed each day to turn in before two o'clock in the morning. 

Now we were snuggled up in bed with mugs of hot cocoa and several bunches of parchment, James with my coffee-stained manuscripts and I with newspaper clippings and research documents concerning Mathilda Hyppolete, Reg Kilkirk, and Dionysus Dimple. My preliminary research was done now, and I was drafting questions I might ask the families and friends of each of the deceased when I went out to interview them this week. So while James read through the highly re-constructed stories of my youth, I outlined - with shameful inadequacy - the stories of other people's youths. 

"Wouldn't it be nice if Petunia still felt this way about you," James said, flipping one of my pages. 

I gave a non-committal little laugh. "It would be."

"I never knew about Vicky, though. I thought you guys just moved house and that was the end of it. And now you're using her as a plot device - I think. I might still be too thick to fully comprehend the workings of your brain."

"I use her and abuse her," I said lightly. 

"Lesbianism. I knew it!"

I swatted James over the head with a newspaper clipping, which only caused him to begin laughing. "I don't like girls who lick you and leave a trail of blue dye down the side of your face," I said, my serious mood betraying me. I began to laugh as well. "And besides, she was blonde. I like brunettes more."

"I love how serious you sound about this."

"Gosh. Now I have no more secrets to keep. Oh, James," I sighed, shuffling my papers, "what ever will you do with me now?"

"Relish the image of you snogging a tall, busty brunette, for starters."

"Good answer. Anyway, can I ask you something - do you know anything about Mathilda Hyppolete that I don't have here?"

"Er," James replied. "She was a brunette?"

I gave him a dirty look; he laughed. "Oh, all right," he said, leaning back against the headboard. His expression became serious again, and he ran his hands thoughtfully through his hair. Then he leaned forward and began studying the documents. "I don't think I really have anything to add to your pile, here. I know she was a pretty good Charm Breaker, and that she was one of Gringotts' best. I never heard of her defying the Dark Lord - openly, at least. Didn't seem like the type who'd do anything that stupid. So you probably won't find anything about her, I don't know, throwing pies at the Death Eaters or anything." James scratched his chin. "But you might consider asking whoever you're going to talk to whether she kept an odd schedule. She might have joined the Order of the Phoenix and just told them not to tell anyone but a few people at the top that she was with us. Lots of people have been doing that."

"Really? How did you find out about them?"

The corner of James's mouth twitched. "My parents have connections?"

"I suppose they must."

"Yeah." He paused. "Actually, they might be able to help you. They could probably give you a decent starting point for some of the people you're going to write about."

I considered this for a moment. He was right, of course. But I had never spoken to James's parents before, much less met them. Surely he'd written to them when we were in school to let them know that I existed, but what on Earth had he told them? Was I supposed to just show up at their doorstep and ask to speak to them about dead people - Hello, I'm Lily, I've been sleeping with your son for more than a year, would you mind chatting with me about this dead person so I can feed my pretense of actually knowing what the hell I'm writing about?

James smirked, seeming to sense my hesitation. "Oh, come on, Lily. You knew you were going to have to meet them at some point."

I blushed. "That's not what I'm worried about," I said, only half-truthfully. "I'm just - don't you think this is a slightly awkward way of making first impressions?"

James laughed. "You don't really believe I just neglected to tell them about you, do you?"

"Well...er..."

"Darling, they raised _me_ ," James replied, as if this explained everything. "They practically _adopted_ Sirius. They put up with me and Sirius and Remus and Peter for years. They'll love you no matter what the dinner conversation is." He grinned impishly. 

"Well, when you put it that way," I said wryly. "All right then. If your parents are free and willing to speak to me about any of these people, I will gladly accept their help. But only if you take the time off to meet my parents, too."

Now James groaned. "Doesn't your sister already want me skewered and burned at the stake?"

"Don't take it personally. She hates me too, remember?"

"Which makes me a permanent wastrel, because I'm attached to you. And because I can do funny things with a wand."

"Exactly. Ain't it grand?"

James sighed and buried his face in my hair. "Do I have to meet your sister at the same time I meet your parents?"

"No," I murmured, gently stroking his cheek. "Petunia doesn't live at home anymore, so that should be pretty simple to arrange."

"Thank you." James's voice was muffled. 

"She really bothers you this much, though?"

"She wouldn't," James said, pulling me close to him. "But she's your sister, which means I want her as my sister-in-law whether I like her or not." He gave an ironic laugh. "I'm kind of hoping your parents will put in a good word for me before I have to meet her."

I remained silent as the weight of what he'd said sank in. James wanted to marry me? 

"We've talked about this before," he said softly, stroking my cheek with one finger. "Remember?"

"Er...yes?" I squeaked. 

"So none of this should be news to you. I told you when we started going out that I wanted this to last."

"Yeah, er - I know. I'm all for that, personally. I just didn't - you just phrased that in a very attention-catching manner."

James grinned. "I've always been flashy. Which is how you know that I am not proposing to you right now."

"...Right."

"Because I haven't got a ring and I haven't done my manliest best to humiliate you in front of everyone you know."

"And you're so easy to read, too. How could I refuse?"

Now he rolled me onto my back and settled his weight on top of me. "I guess you'll have to spend the foreseeable future figuring that out," he murmured, kissing me on the mouth. "My lizard brain can't do it for you."

"Mmm. Primitive." I kissed him back. James had made it clear that he wasn't ready to get married, and that was fine with me; what did bother me was the way he suddenly made light of it, the way he seemed set on distracting me from my hopes. But no good could come of revealing my disappointment, so I let him remove our papers from the bed and begin to undress me. 

He savored each article of clothing as it came off, did not ask my permission to touch; he didn't need to. There was hardly ever an occasion where I did not want him to touch me - I couldn't get enough of him. His lips, his shoulders, his hands and arms and waist; the weight of his chest on mine, the weight of his hips against my thighs - I wanted to fold him into myself and disappear into a place, some softly lit fantasy of a place, where I would never be asked or ordered or forced to let him go. In the gentle light of his bedroom I felt almost as if I'd arrived. The sex was slow and hard and deep; long and languid moments passed where I forgot who I was. I wished that first heavenly stroke as he pushed inside me would last forever. 

x.x.x.x.x.x

Not knowing where to begin, I told James I'd like to meet with his parents as soon as they were free. This was perhaps not the most intelligent thing I'd ever done, because James had us over at his parents' house within two hours - I had time to shower, send an owl to the Order of the Phoenix, and stuff my documents into a satchel. I was ill-prepared to say the least when James led me across the snow-covered grounds of his parents' estate; the fact that they appeared to have their own orchard did little to ease my nerves. 

"It's not an orchard," James laughed when I asked. "It's just an overgrown wood. My grandfather had a thing for buying land and then not doing anything with it. He owned a vineyard about three miles north of here, but that's a different story."

The Potters' house was smaller than I had anticipated, but not by much. It was a large stucco- and stone-faced structure built on the side of a wooded hill, with twin chimney stacks and three lovely bay windows looking out over a the meadowed valley and frozen brook below. Great drifts of snow had gathered on the roof, and - I was quite relieved by this for some reason - a plume of white smoke was rising from one of the chimneys. James helped me up the heavy stone steps and tapped the door with his wand. 

"Ordinarily I'd just walk in," he said, peering into one of the windows, "but they might like a touch more ceremony this time."

"You think?"

"Well - they'll get to make a bigger fuss over you, let's put it that way."

At that moment, the door swung open. "Well, hello, stranger, my son," said the tall, gray-haired man I could only assume was James's father. He wore an impish grin that immediately took ten years off his otherwise elderly appearance, and indeed, he did carry himself with a certain gravity-defying sprightliness. "And what a pleasure it is to meet the young lady at last! The name's Harold. Come in, come in, don't just stand there in the snow, or Mrs. Potter will have my head."

"How's Mum?" James asked, shucking off his coat and scarf. 

"A bloody terror as usual," Mr. Potter replied, taking our coats and hanging them on the wall with a flick of his wrist. "She's taken up knitting. She won't let me out of the bloody house if I'm not wearing ten layers of purple crochet."

"That's because you're always climbing about on the roof in the bloody snow!" came a woman's voice from somewhere I assumed to be the kitchen. 

"Well, someone's got to do it, haven't they? Come and greet the children!"

There was a clatter, and then the quick patter of footsteps over the hardwood floor. Mrs. Potter was a short, wiry little woman with wavy gray hair framing her bird-like face, and she seemed to flutter right up to James as she reached out and clasped him in what looked like a bone-breaking hug. "At last, my son is back in the nest!" She planted a kiss firmly on his cheek - no small feat, as James was easily a foot taller than she was - and then she released him and looked him sternly up and down. She tutted. "Still too skinny - and you look like you've been rolling around in a thistle bush. What have you got up to this time?" 

"Nothing I haven't been up to before," James said, pushing me forward. "Mum, this is Lily - "

"Oh, I surmised, I surmised," Mrs. Potter interrupted. She took my hand and clasped it in hers, smiling warmly. "Welcome, dear. I'm Ellen; it's so nice to meet you at last. You've worked miracles on my son, I can tell you that much."

I had no idea what she was talking about. "Well, I try," I said with an awkward smile. 

"You were exactly what he needed," Mrs. Potter nodded, still gripping my hand firmly in hers. "You look rather cold, dear. Can I make you some tea?"

"Tea would be amazing," James cut in, smiling. He put an arm around his mother's shoulder and led her into the kitchen. "So how have you been, Mum?"

I stood rooted to the spot, dumbfounded. I must have been gawking, because Mr. Potter winked at me. "James learned that bit of chivalry from me."

I blinked. "Chivalry?" Then, catching myself, I laughed. "I guess he must have -"

"He's just saved you from having your gullet stuffed with pastries. Protecting your girlish figure, I'm sure. And he hasn't offended a soul!" Mr. Potter gazed contentedly after James for a moment, seemingly pondering this fantastic bit of luck. "That's always been my job, anyway. Here, Lily, let's get you situated and comfortable."

"Er - thanks," I said, still feeling stupendously awkward. "I really appreciate you having me over today. For making the time and all that."

"Oh, never mind that," Mr. Potter laughed. "Any friend of James is welcome in our house. What's more, we love the company."

"Do you often keep a lot of company?"

Mr. Potter shrugged. "We have a reasonably-sized social circle. My wife needs people to bake for."

"I can imagine," I said, gazing around the kitchen. There were three freshly-baked pies cooling by the oven, and a pot of something that smelled delicious was simmering on the stove; a tea kettle was steaming vigorously over a gas flame. Mrs. Potter was puttering energetically about the kitchen, fussing over which dishes ought to be used for dinner. James glanced over his shoulder and caught my eye, giving me an expression that said, I guess this is a mother thing. Then he went back to rummaging through the cabinets for Mrs. Potter's preferred dishes. 

"So I hear you wanted to speak to us about a few people we may know," Mr. Potter said, giving me a studied look. He went to the wine rack on the wall and selected a rose-colored bottle, uncorked it with pronounced finesse, and poured four glasses with a gentle wave of his wand."James said something about you being the new obituary writer for the Order of the Phoenix, is that correct?"

"Yes," I replied. I was relieved to be getting to the business of my visit. "I guess you've heard about how that happened?"

"Why, yes, I have." Mr. Potter's eyes glinted. "Would you like some wine, dear?"

"Oh - yes, thank you." I sipped delicately; the last thing I needed was to reveal my pathetically low alcohol tolerance twenty minutes into my first meeting with James's parents. "This is very nice."

"It's a favorite of Ellen's. And for good reason." Mr. Potter smiled and blew a kiss at his wife, who waved her hand dismissively at him (though not without a hint of a smile) and stabbed the loaf of bread she had just taken from the oven with a fork. Mr. Potter continued. "I read the obituary you wrote for Paxton. It sounded very professional; I was duly impressed when James told me it was your writing."

"Oh," I blushed. "Thank you. I'm glad I - made a good impression. I'm hoping I'll be able to do the same thing this time around, which was why I wanted to speak to you about a few more people I'm supposed to write about. I mean, completely apart from wanting to meet you - "

Mr. Potter chuckled. "Oh, don't worry about it. You couldn't have persuaded me to meet Ellen's parents with anything short of a death threat when I was your age. I didn't meet them until I was forced into it - "

"He had to explain how my father's chimney had suddenly transformed into a massive totem pole," Mrs. Potter said. "Really, darling, you and your obituaries don't compare."

"So you see," Mr. Potter said. "You could be doing much worse for yourself."

I could not have felt more awkward if I'd tried, but I decided to bite the bullet and roll with it. "I'm not complaining. It's nice to be here." I smiled and pushed some hair out of my face to dissipate my nerves. "So let's get the morbid part over with, shall we? James mentioned that you knew Mathilda Hyppolete before she died; I was just wondering if you might know something about her personally that I could include in her obituary. You know, to flesh out the context around her life as a Charm Breaker for Gringotts."

"Ah," Mr. Potter nodded. "Yes. She was a nice woman, though Ellen and I never socialized with her much. She kept aloof of most things. Very introverted, never married. I believe she graduated from Hogwarts with a battery of honors, though - extremely clever lady. Gringotts will be missing her for sure." He sipped his wine, looking troubled. 

"Do you have any idea how she died?" I asked carefully.

Mr. Potter cleared his throat. "Yes. The Death Eaters got her."

"Really," I said, my fingers going cold. 

"Yes. A couple of Ministry officials found her dead in her living room chair one morning, after an Auror reported a failed capture of an unknown Death Eater. They're still trying to figure out who killed her."

"Was she an official member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Of course. She just never advertised that. Which was wise of her."

"Did she have any family to protect?" I asked breathlessly. 

"No. No husband, no children. Her parents died nearly ten years ago."

"That's really sad," I said. "What about friends - was she well-liked? Is there anyone you'd suggest I speak to before I write her obituary?"

Mr. Potter sipped pensively at his wine. "I'm not sure I can point you to any particular person. Her family is all dead or outside the country. She was well-known, and certainly many people liked her, as far as they thought she was a nice lady with a good lot of talent. But I'm not sure if anyone knew her especially well. As I said, she was quite introverted."

"I see."

"I think it would be enough for you to write about her as an upstanding member of the community," Mr. Potter said. "You won't want to tell the world she was murdered for resisting the Dark Lord. You never know whose cover you'll compromise with a statement like that."

"You don't think it's a bit glib to just leave it at that?"

Mr. Potter's eyes flashed. "People will remember her as they should at her funeral service, behind closed doors. Your job is to acknowledge her death, not deliver a sermon."

I held his gaze uncertainly for a moment, wine waiting at my lips; then I looked away and sipped. "Fair enough. You're right."

No sooner had I uttered the words than Mr. Potter's expression was congenial again. "Well then," he said, heading towards the table James and Ellen had set. "Let's tuck in! My wife makes a fantastic shepherd's pie."

x.x.x.x.x.x

I interviewed Michael Kilkirk next. He was the son of Reg Kilkirk, a quiet, middle-aged man with a full head of hair but graying temples; I met him in his father's woodshop, the place where Reg had been killed. The shop was a bare-walled studio with a pair of heavy wooden benches dominating the center floor; the walls were covered with a dizzying array of heavy, serrated blades, and every surface in the room was coated with a fine layer of sawdust. Stacks of two-by-fours loomed in the back of the studio, beside a large contraption that looked like a power saw. There were no windows. 

"I suppose you'd like a detailed account of everything my father liked to do, all the friends he had, all the petty adjectives you want me to give you permission to put in your obituary," Michael said wearily, wiping the sawdust off a pair of metal stools with a rag. "Is that right?"

His tone cowed me. "I just want a little bit of backstory," I said, trying not to sound defensive. "I can't pretend to know your father, but since what I write about him will be published, I thought you'd like to help me paint a more accurate picture of him."

Michael gave me a flat stare. "Would you like to sit down?"

I bristled a little. "If you'd like me to."

He gestured toward one of the stools he'd wiped down. I gave a self-deprecating smile and sat down, crossing my legs. "Thank you."

"Not a problem." He remained standing. 

"So"¦" I began shuffling through the documents I'd assembled. "I'm not here to make this painful for you. You can tell me only the information you want me to know, and I will not publish until you've approved the manuscript. You'll have nothing to worry about from me."

Michael nodded curtly. 

"Your father was murdered?" I said coolly. 

Michael nodded again. "Yes. By the Death Eaters, but you know that already. It was one of your own who failed to catch the one who killed him, I believe."

"There are a lot of Death Eaters we're after," I said dryly. "If they were easy to catch, I probably wouldn't be here."

"That's the thing," Michael said, his nostrils flaring. "The more of them you catch, the more of them that appear. You and your troop of resistance fighters aren't going about this the right way. The Death Eaters are always three steps ahead of you, and when some old man like my dad gets knocked off because of it, the rest of you don't show up on the scene until two days later wondering what the hell happened. You guys need to get your act together and figure out what the fuck you need to do to win this war."

_Then pick up a wand and go kill Death Eaters yourself, arsehole,_ I thought. "Why do you think they went after your father?"

"Because he was a sixty-five-year-old man too stupid to muffle his bloody power saws," Michael said. His voice was tight with grief. "Because he was easy to kill. Because all he ever did was not join them. Because he was a bloody fucking failure in a duel."

"What was he working on when he was murdered?" I asked softly. 

"He was making wooden salad bowls. Salad bowls and spoons, you know, the kind with the twisted handles that every housewife loves - he was going to sell them at Luntworth's and Down's for ten Sickles apiece." Michael paced about the room, his hands to his temples, pressing the veins there. Then he stopped and looked at me almost belligerently. "You probably own one of his soup ladles. You look like the type who'd use it."

"I don't own any sort of soup ladle," I said quietly. "I'm not a very accomplished chef, sadly."

"You're young, you're pretty - you ought to be married, hidden, safe at home. What are you doing talking to jerks like me?"

"I'm talking to a jerk like you," I said, smiling slightly. "People liked your father's woodwork, didn't they? I saw some of his products selling for a hefty penny when I was at Luntworth's and Down's one day. One woman was examining a pie safe he'd made and said she'd pay twice the price gladly."

"He enchanted his products," Michael replied. His eyes were dark with faraway grief. "They Transfigured themselves on command, had hidden safes and key holes. Very useful for hiding things you didn't want to put into Gringotts. Very functional."

"He must have been quite the handyman at home."

"He built the house he brought my mother home to. His wedding gift to her," Michael said calmly. Then, quite suddenly, he rounded on me, eyes wet and blazing. "I think you had better leave now."

I blinked in surprise, but Michael only bore down on me more, picking up my papers and shoving them in my face. "Girl," he said dangerously, "I said you had better leave."

Heart racing, I snatched my papers back and hurried out of the shop, not daring to take my eyes off him until he had slammed the door behind me. 

x.x.x.x.x.x

My third and last interview was with Melinda Dimple, the widow of Dionysus Dimple. 

My heart sank as soon as I entered her cottage; she looked to be no younger than eighty years old; her hair was thinning; her knuckles protruded; she walked with a shuffle and her hands trembled as she opened the door. Her house smelled like cabbage and onions, and her furniture was decorated with lace doilies that appeared to have withstood the abuse of long-grown up grandchildren. 

"Hello, dear," she said, in a small, gravelly voice. "They told me you were writing a book about my husband."

"Well, not a book. Just a short article to put in the newspaper."

Melinda nodded and shuffled into the living room, where she sat down in one of the two armchairs that stood facing each other. Her hands folded in her lap, clutching one another limply. "He was a good man."

"Yes," I replied. "I know he was."

"I miss him, but he never did remember to drink his tea." Melinda continued nodding, staring at the carpet, appearing not to be looking at anything at all. "I always told him it would help his rheumatism."

"I'm sure he never meant to forget."

Melinda dropped her gaze into her lap. "I miss him very much," she muttered. "Very much. He was a good man."

My eyes began to prickle as I watched her there, rocking slowly back and forth as she was; it was then that I realized she was probably suffering from dementia. But I wasn't ready to give up just yet, so I straightened my back and composed myself. "What was your favorite memory about him, Melinda? What was one thing he did that made you really happy?"

"Very good man," Melinda mumbled. "Miss him very much." Her fingers moved in her lap, and she fell silent. 

"Melinda?" I asked hesitantly. 

No response. A moment later, a choked sob, a gagging noise. I stood up and went to her immediately, afraid that she might choke on her tongue or something to that effect. I put one hand on her back and the other on her forehead, holding her head up straight; her shoulders convulsed under my fingers, and she coughed terribly, stringy saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth. But then she inhaled deeply, wailed once, and then simply began to weep, her forehead bouncing against my palm, shoulders trembling, hands clutching the fabric of her skirt. Tears began dropping into her lap and I breathed. She would not die with me standing in the room. 

I stayed with her for a long time that evening, kneeling beside her with my arm around her shoulder, crooning to her as if she were a child. Yes, Melinda, your husband misses you too. He loves you very much and would never leave you; you were a good wife and he will always remember that. Yes, Melinda - your husband is waiting with God for you to come and join him there, where you will both be young and never die again. 

I left only after she had finally fallen asleep. I covered her gently with a knit blanket she had left draped over the couch, propped her head against a pillow, and wiped the wetness from her cheeks. When her breathing was even and deep, I turned and shut the door softly behind me. 

x.x.x.x.x.x

James was asleep when I arrived at his flat that night. I hadn't told him I was coming, but after being at Melinda's, every inch of my body was weak with the need to be held. The sight of James asleep as he was - flat on his back with an arm behind his head, chest bare in a swath of moonlight - filled me with such relief that I almost fell to my knees and wept right there at the side of the bed. By a trick of the light he was pale as death, but his skin gave him away, warm and full of vitality and youth. 

I showered, dried, and got under the covers beside him. Without opening his eyes, he put an arm around me and pulled me close. I ran my hand over his hip and found him naked; he had been expecting me. 

"I re-read your latest," he said sleepily. "When this is all over I'm taking you to America, and we're going to stand at the foot of Niagara Falls."

I stirred against him, curious. "I thought you were asleep." 

"Hush," he murmured. "Good night, Lily."

 

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

**Author's note:** Hi everyone. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, despite its darkish content. 

Comments are appreciated. :) 


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